Bachelor on the Prowl

Colin handed Holly a hot dog in exchange for one of the water bottles, hoping she didn’t decide to hit him with hers five seconds from now. “Didn’t I tell you? Well, I guess there is just one more thing you’re probably going to bring up from time to time over the years, so maybe I should have mentioned it sooner. You see, I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve decided that I’m going to marry you.”

Okay, Colin acknowledged to himself as he pounded on Holly’s back until she could breathe again, so there were two things he probably should have said to her sooner. One, he was going to marry her and two “Maybe you shouldn’t take a bite out of that hot dog until I tell you number one.”

KASEY MICHAELS

is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than sixty books. She has won a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award and a Romantic Times BOOKclub Career Achievement Award for her historical romances set in the Regency era; she also writes contemporary romances for Silhouette and Harlequin Books.

Bachelor on the Prowl

Kasey Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Tara Hughes Gavin,

so she has a matched set.

Okay, Mike, to you too…

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter One

Every woman has a fantasy. Some wish for a handsome prince to come riding up on his white charger and carry her away to that legendarily well-touted Happily Ever After. Some long for fame on stage or screen, being the one woman in the world every man sees, desires, goes majorly stupid over. Some long to be captains of industry, and can actually see themselves in snazzy corner offices, wielding their power with a brilliance that earns them the cover of Time magazine.

Holly Hollis had set her sights a little lower this fall day in New York City.

All she wanted—and only for an hour, at that—was a man. Living, breathing, capable of walking and chewing gum at the same time.

Just give her a man.

Ah, come on, somebody send her a man.

Oh, and could some kind providence please make him a size thirty-eight long…?

Fifteen minutes earlier…

“Jackie! Brides glide. They do not clomp. Maybe you’re modeling Eddie Bauer Mountain Momma wear next week, but this week it’s Sutherland’s, and Sutherland designs call for gliding. Got that?”

“I can’t help it, Holly. It’s these shoes. They’re too small.” Jackie, the six-foot-tall model, her bones and skin—she may have had a fat cell sometime in her life, but she’d banished it long ago—made a face. She was clad in a Sutherland bridal gown, looked fabulous, but walked toward Holly Hollis like a duck in hip boots.

“Shoes!” Holly called out to anyone who’d listen, and within moments there were a half-dozen hands holding out a half-dozen pair of shoes. White satin pumps. Ivory lace-covered heels. Plain shoes. Shoes with silver buckles. Shoes with heels so curved they looked as if they’d warped.

“Size? Come on, come on. Concentrate, Jackie. What size shoe do you wear?” Holly commanded, and Jackie told her. Holly smiled. There is a God, and She gives small pleasures when She can. “Okay, somebody find me a size twelve for Jackie.”

“Gosh, Holly,” Irene Collier said, frowning. “I don’t think we have any twelves. Twelves? Couldn’t she just wear the boxes?”

Think, think. Holly had to think. “Okay, look,” she said to Jackie, tipping her head back to glare up into the model’s eyes. “Tell me what shoes you wore here today. Maybe they’ll work.”

Jackie frowned. Not a lot, because she was twenty-eight now, and the thought of frown lines were one of her obsessions. “Hiking boots. Brown lace-ups.”

Holly pursed her lips, sort of swung them back and forth over her teeth as she searched her left brain, then her right brain, hoping for inspiration. “Nope. Some designers would put hiking boots with a wedding gown and call it a new look. But not Sutherland. Okay, here’s the deal. Barefoot, Jackie. You’re going down that runway barefoot.”

Jackie raised one well-waxed eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Wrong,” Holly said, taking the model by the elbow and guiding her over to the short set of steps that led up to the curtain behind the runway. “You’re a blushing bride. On the beach in Maui. At dawn. Irene—tell her escort to get rid of his shoes. And his socks! Don’t forget his socks. Then tell him to go down the runway first, stand at the end, holding his arms out for Jackie’s entrance.”

“At the end of the runway? Barefoot? You sure?”

“Don’t push, Irene. I’m working on the edge here. Okay, Jackie. You carry your flowers—Irene, flowers! That’s it. Now, Jackie, you carry your flowers in one hand, use your other hand to sort of lift the front of the gown as you trip along the beach to your intended. Not clomp, not jog, not even trot. You dance across the sand, love in your eyes, your heart pounding, your veil caught in the ocean breeze. Feel it, Jackie. Feel the morning sun on your face. Smell the salt air. Irene, give me tear-jerker romance music. Something with swells in it or something like that, okay?”

Jackie had her eyes closed, “feeling” the scene. Jackie was a “method” model, whatever the hell that was. Something like a “method” actor, Holly supposed, except she got paid better, and the hours weren’t so long. “I see it,” Jackie said. “Yes, I see it.”

“Well, whoop-de-do, she sees it,” Holly muttered as Jackie went tripping off to Maui—or down the runway set up in the main ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel. “Size twelve? The woman could stomp out small villages. Okay, Irene, what’s next?”

“You are overworked, aren’t you? That’s it, Holly. Jackie was the last before the grand finale, and that’s all set, already running like clockwork. We’ve got a good crew, one person assigned to each model. Take a break, maybe even breathe. We’ve got fifteen minutes before the last bride goes down the runway and you have to go out there.”

Irene handed Holly a clipboard, then went in search of a flower girl model who she’d just seen—in her lovely white gown—ripping open a chocolate bar.

Holly staggered over to the refreshment table, snagging a can of diet soda before finding an empty chair and collapsing into it. This was her first showing without her boss and friend, Julia Sutherland Rafferty, by her side, and if she ever had to do another one without Julia’s help she’d have to first go heavily into self-medication.

Holly had come to work with Julia when Sutherland was little more than a dream. They’d set up shop in Allentown, Pennsylvania, Julia concentrating on ready-to-wear clothes for the young and young at heart. Washable, affordable, cut on simple yet classic lines—perfect for the young mother, the female executive, the increasingly fashion-conscious grandmother set.

In other words, Julia’s designs had a universal appeal, and the small Allentown business grew in leaps and bounds, until Julia’s designs were shown twice yearly in New York, just like all the other “big” designers.

Holly hadn’t known a gusset from an inseam when she’d started out with Julia, as her area of expertise had been in crunching numbers, chasing after overdue orders, hiring and firing—the nuts and bolts sort of work that left Julia free to create.

But the creative end of the business called to Holly, and she’d studied everything she could get her hands on, watched Julia, and soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Now, more and more, there were other employees to do the books, the ordering, the payroll and such, and Holly had taken over more of the “outward” part of the business.

Meeting with buyers, broadening their customer base, even sitting in with Julia as she selected materials, having some input on new designs.

The whole experience had been a joy, from the first day she and Julia had opened the door at Sutherland to today, when the company had grown to be one of the most recognized brands in the country.

Julia and Holly had become much more than simply employer and employee. They’d become friends, close friends, which was why Holly had been so thoroughly shocked two years earlier when this Greek god of a guy had shown up and introduced himself as Julia’s husband.

Holly took a sip of soda. Man, that had been a day. That had been weeks of “man, what a day,” actually, until Julia and Max Rafferty had figured out that their separation had been a mistake and Holly got to watch a little “happily ever after” up close.

Julia’s dad and mom, who’d been unhappily retired in Florida, had happily moved back to Allentown, and now Jim Sutherland oversaw much of the actual production while Julia and Max—and now Max, II—lived in Manhattan almost exclusively, near Max’s businesses.

Julia relied heavily on Holly, and Holly liked that, liked the responsibility, enjoyed the pressure.

But she hadn’t counted on being in charge of the initial showing of Julia’s new interest, bridal wear. Sure, she’d always attended all Sutherland showings, but it had been Julia who’d run them, and run herself ragged, taking care of any last-minute glitches, herding models, pinning ripped hems and taking the applause and bows at the end.

But Julia had Max II now, and she left her five-month-old only rarely. She had planned to leave him with a sitter today, but Max had the sniffles, and Julia had dumped the entire show in Holly’s lap saying, “I know you can do it.”

Holly looked around at the chaos that circled her like a gaggle of dyspeptic buzzards. Models, everywhere. Gowns, everywhere. Makeup artists, seamstresses, caterers, little kids chasing each other, male models posing as if there must be cameras hidden everywhere.

And yet she’d made it to the homestretch with only one glitch—Jackie’s big feet. Thank God Jackie was only scheduled to model two gowns.

Holly longed to slip into the crowd of reporters, buyers and society matrons on the other side of the curtain, just for one quick minute, to hear how they liked the show so far. She could still do that, as she wasn’t Julia; tall, beautiful, definitely recognizable Julia Sutherland Rafferty.

Because she was just plain old Holly Hollis. All five feet one inch, and one hundred and six pounds of her. Nobody noticed her, never did, not in this fashion world of the giants. She could slip outside, listen to the buzz and know whether or not the latest Sutherland venture was looking like a hit or a miss.

Holly put down the soda can and got to her feet. She walked over to the makeup area and peered into one of the mirrors, checking to make sure she didn’t look as wild-eyed as she felt. Nope, still the same old Holly Hollis.

Her chestnut hair always looked out of place, because it had been cut to look that way. Short, spiky on top to give her some needed height, with wisps cut into the sides and at the back, then sort of combed forward, to touch on her forehead, her cheeks, her nape.

Julia had talked her into the cut, saying that her small frame cried out for a little drama, and that the cut accentuated Holly’s huge green eyes, set off her slightly pointy chin.

“Right,” Holly said now to her reflection. “Now all I need is a harness and a sky hook, and I can play Peter Pan on Broadway.”

“Um…Holly?”

Holly turned around, to see Irene making a face. Not good. Irene didn’t make faces. She endured. She conjured miracles. She followed Holly around with a figurative broom, sweeping up problems and making them disappear.

“Problem?” Holly asked, figuring that, at the least, the Waldorf had just caught fire.

“It’s the finale,” Irene said, wincing as she took the clipboard from Holly. “We’re minus the groom.”

Holly looked around the huge room, counted heads. There were male models all over the place. “What do you mean, we’re minus the groom? Pick one.”

“That won’t work, Holly,” Irene told her with the tone of someone pointing out that, yes, by gum, the sky is blue.

“It won’t work?” Holly asked, abandoning her idea to go scope out the reporters and buyers. Oh well, she probably wasn’t dressed for the part of Secret Squirrel anyway, not in her kelly-green sheath, her wrist pincushion and the pink feather boa she’d forgotten she had wrapped around her neck—an expensive accessory for the bridal lingerie portion of the showing she didn’t want stuffed in some sticky-fingered model’s purse and walked out the door. “Don’t tell me it won’t work, Irene. I don’t want to hear that it won’t work.” She sighed, then ended, “Okay, tell me why it won’t work.”

“Here’s the logistics,” Irene told her. Irene loved to use the word logistics. She liked other words, too, like extrapolate, and phrases like in conjunction with. At forty-seven, her stay-at-home-mom years behind her, Irene had decided to forgo going back to teaching and had looked for a “glamour job.” Only she couldn’t quite beat the teacher part of her into submission all the time.

“Don’t say logistics, Irene,” Holly begged, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “My head hurts when you say logistics. And if you’re standing there trying to figure out a way of slipping in my considered opinion into your next sentence, I warn you, I may just have to hurt you.”

Irene was tall. Julia was tall. The models were all tall. The whole world was tall. And Holly sometimes got tired of looking at everyone’s kneecaps. It could make her moody.

“Don’t pout,” Irene said, obviously deciding that today was a moody day. “Now, I’ll explain. As you know, the finale is a parade of eleven of our bridal gowns, each model being escorted down the runway by a groom. That leaves the big moment for Jackie to enter wearing Julia’s real showpiece, the peach peau de soie. Eleven plus one, for a total of twelve. Thirteen’s unlucky, remember? But Jackie has to have a groom, and we only have eleven male models. A tall groom, because Jackie’s…well, she’s tall.”

“You’re all tall,” Holly grumbled. “The world is prejudiced toward tall people.”

“You mean, the world is prejudiced against small people,” Irene, always punctilious, corrected.

“I mean I’m short,” Holly said hotly. “Look at these gowns. I tried one on, you know, just in case my mother’s prayers are ever answered and I actually need some silk and lace. And I drowned. I looked like a little kid playing dress-up. First thing I’m going to do when this is over and I see Julia, is to tell her that there has to be a petite collection. Not just smaller sizes, but designs that won’t overpower us short people. I mean, the gown I tried on had the loveliest poof sleeves. And I ended up looking like Joan Crawford in one of those thirties movies. Shoulders out to here,” she said, using her hands to show the width of her shoulders. “I could play fullback in my nephew’s peewee football league.”

Throughout this tirade, Irene had been counting male heads, watching the door, and counting heads again. “You’re through?” she asked with the patience of a mother of five. “Good. Now, back to our problem.”

“No problem,” Holly said. “We just ax one of the other bridal gowns and slip the groom on Jackie’s arm.”

“No can do,” Irene said, holding out the clipboard to Holly once more. “This is the finale, Holly. CNN is here, filming the whole thing for their special on weddings. One by one—with escort—we send eleven fantastic gowns down that runway, not twelve, because Jackie can’t wear two gowns. Each gown with its own close-up and description. That’s mega airtime for our ladies. Which one do you want to ax, and then wait for the hysterics? We got these top models because we promised them CNN, Holly. Do you want to take a chance on losing any one of them for Julia’s next showing?”

Holly glared at her assistant. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Ten minutes, Holly,” Irene said, glancing at the silver watch on her wrist. “What do we do?”

“Can’t she walk alone? What’s the problem with her walking alone?”

Irene rolled her eyes. “Are you forgetting that gown? It’s the show gown, Holly, not really meant to ever be worn by any halfway human person. I think the thing weighs seventy pounds, and that’s without the headpiece. Jackie needs an arm to lean on, or she’s going to end up facedown in the front row of laps. That would look real great on CNN, wouldn’t it? And I don’t think Julia wants today’s event to appear on some television blooper show.”

Several thoughts went flying through Holly’s brain, most of them painful, and none of her ideas workable. “Find out who this model is who was a no-show. I’ve always wanted to be able to say you’ll never work in this town again. When I find him, that’s what I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tattoo it on his perfect forehead.”

“Nine minutes,” Irene said, continuing her countdown.

Holly came to a decision. “We yank the eleven male models and pick one to escort Jackie.”

“Airtime, Holly. For the boys as well as the girls. You’d have a riot on your hands, and I hate to see handsome grown men cry. Besides, the first two brides have already hit the runway—with escorts. Oh—eight minutes and forty-five seconds, Holly.”

“Trying for a second career doing countdowns at NASA, Irene?” Holly bit out, then grinned. “Yes! Irene, look over there. At the door. I think I see our man. Quick, what’s his name?”

“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Irene said, consulting the clipboard once more. “Harry Hampshire. Has to be a made-up name, right? Sic him, Holly, while I get the tuxedo ready. And, please, don’t give him that you’ll never work in this town again line until after the finale.”

Holly was already halfway to the door. Harry Hampshire, huh? He didn’t look like a Harry. He looked, actually, like some sort of Greek god. Max Rafferty looked like a Greek god. Harry made her second Greek god in two years. That had to be her quota. She doubted she would see another in her lifetime.

Tall, definitely tall enough to make Jackie look fragile, he had the slim, muscular build of the professional model. A mane of blackest black hair, one lock sort of slipping down onto his forehead. Blue eyes that sparkled inside a fringe of black lashes any woman would die for. Full lips that were more sensual than hot fudge licked from a spoon. That square, model jaw, those creases in his cheeks as he returned the smile of one of the female models.

Dear God, he made Holly’s palms itch. Gorgeous on a stick. Masculinity refined, smoothed, and yet definitely not domesticated. The kind of guy who’d actually look good in a morning beard. The kind of guy who smiled and that smile made you blink, because surely this guy couldn’t be human. No human could be that perfect.

Yeah, well, so much for waxing poetic over some skin and bones.

“You’re late, buster,” Holly accused, grabbing his arm as he winked at one of the models. “Come on, we’ve got like seven minutes to get you into your tux.”

“I beg your pardon?” the hunk said, although he did move along with her, which was a good thing because Holly was more than ready to try tossing him over her shoulder and personally stuffing him into the tux.

“Look, Harry, I’ve got no time for this. Strut on your own time, okay? We’ve got—Irene! How much time have we got?”

“Six minutes,” Irene called out, lining up more of the other models, each of whom had her own attendant with her, ready to fluff out the train on each gown before the model stepped on the runway. “Tux is ready to go, studs beside it on the chair.”

“Got it,” Holly said, turning around, tugging on Harry’s tie, beginning to unbutton the model’s shirt. She then dropped to her knees in front of him, began untying his shoes. “Come on, come on. No time for modesty, Harry. Kick off the shoes. Drop those pants. We’ve got to get you into this tux now.”

“You want me in a tux?”

Holly looked up at him, motioned for him to slip out of his suit jacket. Nice suit, probably Armani. Modeling must pay even better than she thought. Of course, with this guy’s face and body, he could probably command top dollar. “No, I want you in this tux, right here, right now. So strip!”

His smile invaded her solar plexus, gave it a punch that nearly sent her toppling over, onto the floor.

“Okay, since you asked. But isn’t there somewhere I can change?”

“Yes, there is. Right here. I told you, no time for modesty. Come on, I need you out of those pants.”

Harry looked around, saw that nobody really seemed to find anything odd going on and unzipped his suit pants. “Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

Holly paid him no attention, or at least as little attention as possible, because she had noticed that he had great legs. Straight, with unbumpy knees—she hated bumpy knees, because she had them—and with fine dark hair covering his tanned skin. The guy worked out, the guy probably laid in a tanning bed three days a week. The guy wore maroon cotton briefs…

She got up from her knees after holding out the tuxedo pants and watching as he stepped into them, and began fanning herself with one end of the feather boa. She really had to get a grip here.

“Eighth model on the runway. Four minutes, Holly!”

Harry was stuffing his pleated tuxedo shirt into the waistband of his pants as Holly worked to secure the black opal studs. He was still fastening his cuff links as Holly, now standing on a small stool, slid the tie under his lapels, then began tying it. “Hold still, damn it. This is hard enough as it is.”

Harry’s hands came up, clasped Holly’s. “Let me do that, okay,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “I’ve done it before.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you have. Fill in the employment gaps as a professional escort, do you, Harry? You know, taking rich old ladies to the opera, stuff like that?”

“I have taken a few mature ladies to the opera, yes,” he answered, lifting his perfect chin as he neatly tied the bow tie. “Now, if you’ll help me into my jacket—nice tux, by the way—I’ll be ready for you to tell me what comes next.”

“What comes next,” Holly said, then hesitated, cleared her throat, because Harry Hampshire in a tuxedo was enough to make her choke on her own spit. “…what comes next is you take Jackie’s arm here, lead her out onto the runway and smile for the cameras.”

For a moment, just for a moment, Harry looked nonplussed. Scared, even. “You want me to do what?”

Holly rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. What did you think it meant when you signed up for this showing? That you’d just get to hide back here, scarf down some free eats? CNN is waiting, and you and Jackie are going to be all over that station on promos this time next week. Now, let Jackie take your arm—her gown’s sort of heavy so you have to help her navigate—and just walk on out there, looking at Jackie as if she’s a rare, juicy steak and you’ve been on a chicken diet all month, okay?”

Harry scratched his head, smiled. “You want me to walk out there with this lady, parade around in my tux, make a jackass out of myself for the cameras?”