A Little Night Matchmaking

He was definitely taking a chance. A big one. He’d been called fearless, but he wasn’t reckless. Or careless. He always calculated the odds carefully before acting. He didn’t step into harm’s way without being absolutely certain of the outcome. Failure was never an option.

Until now. Letting Brandy Mitchum, with her precocious child and her prickly problems and her spunky independence, into his life was the biggest gamble he’d ever taken. He wasn’t ready. He was used to risking his neck, not his emotions. Someone could get hurt here. And that someone could be him.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into.” He spoke to Brandy, but was he really addressing himself?

Dear Reader,

Saying goodbye is never easy, and when “goodbye” means leaving a line I’ve come to love, farewell is even harder. I hope you have enjoyed Silhouette Romance under my leadership and continue to cherish this terrific line under the direction of Ann Leslie Tuttle, Silhouette Romance’s new associate senior editor.

And if you’re looking for a handsome hero, look no further than Silhouette Romance! From bosses to princes to cowboys to oilmen, you’ll find a man for every woman’s taste this month.

He’s a prince disguised as a sexy American executive; she’s a princess disguised as his hotel manager. Don’t miss Princess Meredith’s last matchmaking attempt—for herself!—in Twice a Princess (SR #1758) by Susan Meier, the conclusion to the miniseries IN A FAIRY TALE WORLD….

Trading Places with the Boss (SR #1759) was supposed to be a learning experience. But what this secretary finds is an alarming attraction to her employer—and he seems to feel it, too! Raye Morgan brings us an office romance to remember in the latest book in her BOARDROOM BRIDES miniseries.

When this city girl escaped to the country to mend her broken heart, she finds herself face-to-face with temptation: an ex-rodeo rider working on the neighboring ranch. Will she give in? Find out in Madeline Baker’s Every Inch a Cowboy (SR #1760).

Two star-crossed soul mates get some heavenly help with their love lives in Debrah Morris’s A Little Night Matchmaking (SR #1761). This West Texas oilman is always all-business, until he meets his match in a feisty single mom.

May this month’s heroes lead you into a world of true love and happily-ever-after.

Sincerely,

Mavis C. Allen

Associate Senior Editor

A Little Night Matchmaking

Soulmates

Debrah Morris

MILLS & BOON

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Books by Debrah Morris

Silhouette Romance

A Girl, a Guy and a Lullaby #1549

That Maddening Man #1597

Tutoring Tucker #1670

When Lightning Strikes Twice #1687

A Little Night Matchmaking #1761

DEBRAH MORRIS

When she isn’t writing her own novels and reading novels written by others, Debrah teaches novel writing in workshops and a university program. She is also active in a romance writers group.

She used to have hobbies and other interests, but these days her mind is pretty much one-tracked, and fiction is it.

She loves hearing from readers and can be contacted via her Web site: www.debrahmorris.com or at P.O. Box 522, Norman, OK 73070.

Chloe’s Favorite Snickerdoodles

½ cup butter, softened

½ cup shortening

1 ½ cups white sugar

2 eggs

2 tsp vanilla extract

2 ¾ cups all-purpose flour

2 tsp cream of tartar

1 tsp baking soda

¼ tsp salt

2 tbsp white sugar

2 tsp ground cinnamon

1. Tell a grown-up to turn on the oven and set it at 400°F.

2. Smoosh together butter, shortening, 1 ½ cups sugar, eggs and vanilla extract and mix it all up good. Stir flour, cream of tartar, baking soda and salt together in another bowl and then add the powdery stuff to the creamy stuff. Roll the dough into balls about an inch big. (Mommy says if the dough is too sticky to handle, you can put it in the fridge for a few minutes first.)

3. Mix 2 tablespoons sugar and 2 teaspoons cinnamon. roll balls of dough around in mixture until you can’t see any dough. Place the balls 2 inches apart on big ungreased baking sheets. Whatever you do, don’t put the balls too close together. Very important!

4. Put them in the oven and help clean up the mess while you’re waiting. They only have to bake 8 to 10 minutes, or until lightly browned. These are ’sposed to be soft cookies, so watch ’em so they don’t get too brown or too hard. Remove immediately from baking sheets to wire racks. Makes about 4 dozen cookies, unless you eat too much dough while you’re rolling.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The After Place

“Please, don’t send me back to earth!” Celestian was really in trouble this time. He had finally gone too far. Tampered with The Plan once too often. He’d already been busted down from time-out monitor to prayer courier, and yet here he was again, facing a Level Three Penalty Hearing. Would he ever learn to straighten up and fly right?

“A decision has been made.” He couldn’t see the hallowed faces of the Panel’s senior saints, but their voices resonated from three different directions.

He couldn’t go back. Earth was a dangerous place. “It’s been over three hundred years, Your Excellencies. I am unfit to live again.”

A calm, sonorous voice filled the interview chamber’s white space. “You shan’t be given an earthly life, Celestian. You must retain spirit form.”

“If I may speak freely—”

“You may not speak at all.” Another voice. Deeper. Not so calm. “Listen and obey. We do not wish to see you in Judicial Chambers.”

“Yes, sirs.” Nor did he wish to be seen in Judicial Chambers.

“More than once you have failed to follow After Place policy.” Another voice seemed determined to point out the obvious.

“Perhaps I’ve behaved imprudently, but—”

“Your imprudence borders on insubordination,” St. Cranky snapped. “You have placed us in an untenable position.”

“You have lost sight of your purpose,” St. Obvious intoned.

“We trust a lesson in humility will teach you to respect The Plan.” Even St. Calm didn’t sound so calm now.

“An example must be set.” St. Cranky, of course.

“Yes, sirs. But banning me to earth seems harsh in light of—”

“Do not consider yourself banned.” St. Calm recovered his equanimity. “Consider your return to earth a mission.”

“A mission? Me?” Celestian squeaked. What in heaven’s name were they thinking? He did not possess the skills required for Earthwork.

“Celestial beings are never given assignments they cannot fulfill,” St. Calm reminded.

“Very well.” Celestian sighed. There was no arguing with a Review Panel. “I can’t wait to hear what I must do.”

“That’s the spirit!” St. Obvious didn’t understand sarcasm. “Since you are guilty of manipulating circumstances for your own purpose, you shall be given ample opportunity to do so by returning to earth as a guide.”

“A spirit guide?” Celestian dared to hope. That wasn’t so bad. “Whose earthly life must I guide?”

“Your human’s name is Chloe Mitchum.”

Celestian’s optimism faded as memories of Slapdown, Texas flooded back. “But Chloe Mitchum is a child.”

“Yes, an old soul who recently entered the fifth year of her current life. Helping an innocent little girl won’t strain your limited resources, will it?”

“No, sir.” Celestian listened as the Panel explained he was to befriend a child experiencing earthly problems. What problems did a five-year-old have?

“All you have to do is provide comfort, succor and guidance. The usual.”

He could do that. “As in, look both ways before you cross the street. Brush your teeth up and down and back and forth. Drink your milk. That kind of guidance?”

“Your primary objective will be helping Chloe’s mother meet her soul mate,” said St. Cranky.

“What?” Matchmaking was definitely not in his toolbox.

“Nothing complicated. Assist them in falling in love. Facilitate their courtship. Insure their lifelong happiness, a fate already slated for them. That is all.” St. Calm’s impossibly reasonable tone frustrated Celestian.

“You lost me at courtship.” He knew nothing about making people fall in love. He’d died without ever experiencing the emotion.

“Despite the combined efforts of several departments,” St. Obvious continued, “we have been unable to bring these two soul mates together. Their paths have paralleled, but have not crossed.”

“Time is running out,” added St. Calm. “She married the wrong man once and is overcautious. He has stubbornly vowed to remain a bachelor.”

Celestian began to sense how truly difficult his task would be.

“Extreme measures are needed. That’s where you come in,” said St. Obvious. “We require regular progress reports, so stop by Central Supply before you leave and pick up a H.A.R.P.”

“A harp, sir?”

“Handheld Analog Reporting Pad,” St. Obvious explained. “The new technology far surpasses the old. Very user-friendly.”

“If you succeed in helping the soul mates find true love, you may return to your former position in the time-out room.” St. Cranky dangled the bait.

“And if I fail?” Celestian asked.

“If you fail, you are stuck.” Leave it to St. Obvious. “Stuck on earth. Stuck in Texas. Stuck with Chloe.”

Doomed. As were the humans if he was their best shot at happiness. “I don’t understand. Why do soul mates destined for eternal love need my help?”

Silence filled the interview chamber as the panel conferred with one another. St. Cranky finally spoke. “Due to a system error, these two soul mates currently occupy Antipodean Mortal Coils.”

“Anti what?” Celestian wasn’t up on the jargon. He’d never expected to wind up on happily-ever-after detail.

A babble of no longer serene voices boomed through the chamber.

“Opposites. Contrary in personality, temperament and values,” explained St. Calm.

“Totally and hopelessly mismatched,” added St. Obvious.

“You call that a glitch?” Celestian began to sense how hopeless his mission really was. “Try problem of mammoth proportions.”

“Dear boy, do not be discouraged. If you wish to return to The After Place, you mustn’t let the fact that the subjects have absolutely nothing in common deter you from your worthy goal.” St. Cranky had suddenly become St. Smug.

He knew Celestian didn’t have a prayer.

Chapter One

Love is the only fire hot enough

To melt the iron obstinacy of a creature’s will

—Anonymous

Unknown and uninvited, he had slipped into her bedroom again last night. Not quite real enough to be frightening, his arrival wasn’t entirely unexpected. Three times now, he’d appeared in the darkest hour of the night. At first, he had stood quietly at the foot of her bed and said nothing. He seemed to await an invitation, but she could hardly offer one. She couldn’t speak or move or beckon. She could only bide.

The tall stranger was oddly familiar, though there was shadow where his face should be. When he finally spoke, his whispered words were faint, as though drifting across a great, windy chasm. When she didn’t answer, he disappeared, but she ached for his return.

The next night, he became bolder. He sat on the bed beside her, so close his comforting presence invaded her senses and paralyzed her with pleasure. His voice was stronger than before, like distant thunder gaining power as a storm approached. He murmured, Brandy, Brandy, Brandy, turning her name into a song.

Last night when the stranger appeared in her room, he knelt beside her bed and touched her cheek. His dark head bent close, and his warm breath bathed her skin with need. Desperate to feel his lips on hers, she tried to turn her head, but couldn’t. She could only sense and feel and hear. He whispered a yearning expression of love in her ear. Brandy. Don’t sleepwalk through life. Wake up.

And so she had, to an empty bedroom filled with gray morning light, echoes of regret and the faint scent of cinnamon.

Brandy Mitchum squinted as her eyes readjusted to the bright afternoon sunlight and tamped down memories of the troubling dreams. She steered her old car down the washboard country road. She was running late. If Harry Peet hadn’t insisted on reading the thick sheaf of legal documents before signing, her mind wouldn’t have had so much time to wander. To dwell. She had to focus. The Midnight Man might be ruining her sleep on a recurring basis, but she couldn’t let him interfere with work. Futterman wouldn’t accept less than her best.

She glanced at her watch. The unscheduled trip to the Milk of Human Kindness Dairy had chomped a two-hour chunk out of her afternoon. Time was tight, but if no additional glitches arose, she could still hustle back to Odessa in time to pick up Chloe from the after-school program.

Her stomach rumbled. No lunch. She just couldn’t seem to break that darned three-meal-a-day habit. Hoping to find candy stashed in her oversize mommy purse, she kept her eyes on the road and fished among the jumble of Happy Meal toys, moist towelettes and clean size five Powerpuff Girls underwear. The catch of the day was a Hershey bar that had succumbed to heatstroke, but what the heck? A sugar hit was a sugar hit. Steering with one hand, she opened the wrapper and licked warm goo off the paper.

Melting as fast as the chocolate, Brandy switched on the air conditioner, but the fan grumbled and blew hot humid air in her face. Mid-September, and the outside temperature hovered near ninety. Not a good day for the A/C to conk. But then, no day in West Texas was a good day to lose climate control. She cranked down the window and leaned across the seat to lower the glass in the passenger door. Might as well roast evenly on both sides.

“Hey, lady! Wake up!”

She glanced up at the shouted warning and expelled a curse that would never have escaped her lips had her five-year-old daughter been present. She pumped the brakes, and the car slid in loose gravel before skidding to a teeth-rattling stop. The shoulder restraint locked in, preventing a close encounter between her head and the steering wheel.

Disaster averted. Barely. If the car had skidded another yard, it would have struck the truck angled across the road. Brandy sucked in a deep breath to calm her pounding heart.

A tall man in a black Stetson and mirrored sunglasses yelled as he approached. “What’s the matter with you, lady? You asleep?”

Not exactly. She’d been daydreaming about a nighttime dream, and the distraction had almost gotten her killed.

When she didn’t answer, the man stooped down and scowled at close range. “You nearly hit my trailer.”

“I noticed.” A large truck pulling a flatbed loaded with heavy equipment had failed to negotiate the turn onto the narrow country road. The dual wheels on the trailer’s left side had slid into the rocky ditch beside the road, blocking entry onto the highway. Four men stood in the sun as though awaiting orders from the scowler.

“You all right?” Stetson’s words couldn’t have contained less concern. “Not hurt, are you?”

“No. Scared spitless, but the condition isn’t fatal.” Brandy noticed the logo spelled out in big flaming letters on the side of the truck. Hotspur Well Control. Now there was a fine piece of small-world rotten luck. She had almost plowed into a truck owned by the very company her boss was suing on Harry Peet’s behalf. At least she didn’t feel too bad about the litigation. The company was a nuisance, and its employees weren’t exactly courteous, either.

“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of the way so my men can hook a mini-crane to that trailer.”

“Sure. No problem.” Her heart rate returned to normal, but every time the man spoke, it kicked up again. There was something familiar about that voice. When Brandy shifted the car into reverse, it coughed like an asthmatic senior citizen, then rattled and died. She groaned. Not now. She couldn’t afford a tune-up until payday. Please, please, please start.

Muttering a prayer to the patron saint of old engines, she performed her standard good luck ritual. Three taps on the dash. Rearview mirror realign. Kiss blown in the direction of Chloe’s picture swinging from her key chain.

“Today would be good,” Stetson grumbled.

“Fine!” When she tried again the engine wheezed to life. Thank you, St. Combustion. She backed the car several yards, churning up enough dirt to make the tall man cough. Served him right for snapping her head off. He hadn’t bothered removing the aviator-style sunglasses, and the wide hat brim cast his face in shadows. She couldn’t get a good look at his face, but the rest of him wasn’t too bad. Of course, the state was full of hunky cowboys.

This one had a major case of the four Ts.

Tall. Tan. Tough. Texan.

He stomped off without another word, his scuffed boots kicking up angry little clouds of dust. Add a fifth T. Testy. Brandy watched him walk away. There was something familiar about the set of his wide shoulders. Had they met before? No. She’d remember him. Confidence without swagger. Firm step. Slim hips. Faded jeans hugging all the right places. She would definitely remember.

Close but no cigar. She didn’t need another difficult man in her life and wasn’t willing to go there. Following her divorce four years ago, her mother had warned her about dating again. “Be careful you don’t come down with frog-kiss fever.” She’d explained the condition whereby a woman feels compelled to give even unsuitable men a chance in the hopes of finding the right one. Well, not her. She was holding out for Prince Charming. Only nice guys need apply.

Brandy parked at the side of the road, got out and leaned against her car in the slanting afternoon sun. She used her cell phone to call the law office and let the receptionist know where she was and why. Then she punched in the number for the after-school program. They had a strict tardy policy and every minute past six o’clock would cost her. Still, she should warn them she might be late. Chloe was such a worrier.

After making the calls, she waited impatiently as the men unhitched the disabled trailer from the truck. The flat, dry pastureland wasn’t much to look at, but Stetson had plenty of eye appeal. Too bad he didn’t have a personality to match. If he weren’t so bossy, his deep voice might have been sexy. If he weren’t so fiercely masculine, his long-legged, loose-hipped stride might have been graceful. There was economy in his movements. This was a man who didn’t waste time or energy. Such intensity would make him equally at home in a brawl or on a dance floor. In the boardroom or the bedroom.

Disgusted with her errant thoughts, Brandy removed her suit jacket and tossed it in the back seat. The inside of the car was roughly the temperature of a pottery kiln. Sunstroke would explain why she was having feverish thoughts about a stranger who couldn’t work up enough interest to glance her way. Which was worse? Daytime delusions or nocturnal fantasies? No doubt, both were side effects of self-inflicted celibacy. Four years was a long time to be alone.

She glanced at her watch and groaned. The afternoon was slipping away. She’d never get to town by six if she didn’t hit the road soon.

“Hey, mister!”

The man in the black Stetson looked up. “Yeah?”

She held out her arm and jabbed her wristwatch. “How much longer is this going to take?”

“As long as it takes.” He shook his head as though she’d just asked a stupid question and turned his back on her.

Twenty minutes later, the crane hoisted the trailer back onto the road. It took the crew another ten minutes to clear the equipment. Brandy jumped behind the wheel and started the engine, and this time it didn’t even grumble. The boss waved her around with an exaggerated bow, but stepped in front of the car at the last minute.

“Now what?” The engine idled like a threshing machine, and she clutched the vibrating steering wheel.

He walked around the car to the driver’s side window. “Timing needs adjusting.”

“No kidding. Life is all about timing. And yours isn’t all that hot.” Even if the rest of him was.

“I meant your car’s running a little rough.”

He had stopped her to point out the obvious? “Thanks, I’ll get right on it.” She let up on the brake.

He slapped the roof of her car. “Wait. Something else needs fixing before you head back to town.”

She gave the righted trailer a pointed look. “Haven’t you already done what you came for?”

“Not quite.” He pulled a red bandana from the back pocket of his jeans, reached into the car and scrubbed at her cheek.

“What are you doing?” Brandy wasn’t the screeching type, but his unexpected action startled her. Even more startling, was her reaction. Without warning, the stranger’s touch slammed past the barricade she’d erected around her emotions since her divorce. He touched more than her cheek. Tapping into an undercurrent of longing, the connection flattened her defenses like an eighteen-wheeler rolling over a traffic cone.

The rush of odd feelings shook Brandy to the core, but not as much as the effort required to conceal them. Just as she began to recover from the impact, another startling thought blindsided her.

She knew this man.

The notion pierced Brandy’s mind, strong and certain. She’d seen him before. Somewhere. Sometime. Hadn’t she? No. He was definitely a stranger. And an annoying one at that. Still, she couldn’t deny the uneasy sense of having been touched by him before. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, forgetting for a moment how to drive. Instinct told her to step on the gas, yet she couldn’t resist the dangerous urge to stay. Distracted, she gunned the engine. She was light-headed and dizzy, but that was due to the sun’s heat, not the man’s.

“Next time you eat chocolate on a warm day,” he said with the twitch of a smile, “check the mirror for leftovers.” He waited five pounding heartbeats before wheeling around and striding back to his men.

Brandy stared after him, but he was intent on his work and didn’t give her another look. What an unsettling encounter. She sped away feeling ridiculous but couldn’t stop thinking about him on the drive back to town. Understandable. It had been a long time since a man had rattled her so badly.

Long time? Try never. The freaky been-there-done-that sensation inspired by Stetson’s touch was the strongest example of déjà vu she’d ever experienced. Sleeping emotions rumbled, stirring to life like a volcano that had been dormant too long.