Mr. Predictable: Mr. Predictable / Too Many Cooks

Two brand-new stories in every volume…twice a month!

Duets Vol. #61

Little wonder veteran Duets author Kristin Gabriel has received two RITA Awards from the Romance Writers of America for her fabulous, funny stories. This month she delivers a delightful duo—the Kane brothers and their adventures on the path to true love. Enjoy!

Duets Vol. #62

Voted Storyteller of the Year twice by Romantic Times, Silhouette writer Carol Finch always “presents her fans with rollicking, wild adventures…and fun from beginning to end.” Making her Duets debut this month is talented newcomer Molly O’Keefe with a fun story about the matchmaking Cook family—and what can happen when there are too many Cooks…!

Be sure to pick up both Duets volumes today!

Mr. Predictable

Carol Finch

Too Many Cooks

Molly O’Keefe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Mr. Predictable

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Too Many Cooks

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

“You just need to hang loose,” Moriah declared.

“Our next hurdle is to get you to do something impulsive, something totally unplanned, unexpected and off schedule.”

“Hey, I can be impulsive if I feel like it,” Jake said, affronted.

“Couldn’t prove it by me, Mr. Predictable,” she teased him. “When was the last time you hauled off and did something totally out of character?”

He frowned pensively.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Don’t rush me. I’m thinking.”

“That’s your problem.”

He suddenly grinned. “You want impulsive do you?”

He leaned over, snatched Moriah off her horse and planted a kiss on her. It wasn’t just a playful little peck on the cheek, either. It was a hot, steamy, burn-off-your-lips kind of kiss that demanded a response.

It was the most spontaneous thing Jake had ever done, and he liked it. A lot…

Dear Reader,

I’m delighted to be writing my third book for Duets, because I love romantic comedy! In this story you will meet a serious-minded workaholic who clashes with the fun-loving owner of a resort for stressed-out businessmen.

J. T. Prescott doesn’t believe for one minute that he needs these two weeks of recreational therapy that his sisters arranged for him, and he stubbornly resists Moriah Randell’s attempt to change his attitude, his unwavering routine and his lifestyle. This battle of wills becomes far more personal and complicated when their attraction to each other refuses to be ignored or denied. When unexpected emotions sneak up on J.T. and Moriah, they can’t imagine what has hit them so hard and so fast…and just won’t go away!

Enjoy,

Carol Finch

Books by Carol Finch

HARLEQUIN DUETS

36—FIT TO BE TIED

42—A REGULAR JOE

SILHOUETTE SPECIAL EDITION

1242—NOT JUST ANOTHER COWBOY

1320—SOUL MATES

This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed, and our children—Jon, Jeff, Kurt, Christie and Jill. And to our grandchildren, Blake, Kennedy and Brooklynn. Hugs and kisses!

And a very special thank-you to my editor, Priscilla Berthiaume, and my agent, Laurie Feigenbaum, for all your help and support. You are greatly appreciated!

1

JACOB THOMAS PRESCOTT squeezed his eyes shut to relieve the strain of staring at the computer screen for ten hours straight. Of course, that was nothing new, he reminded himself as he massaged his temples to ease the headache pounding in rhythm with his pulse. This, after all, was life as he knew it. Work. And more work. It’s what he did six days a week—and sometimes on Sunday.

J.T.—as his three employees at his graphic shop and his sisters knew him—checked his watch. Six o’clock, right on the button. With robotlike precision, J.T. saved the file and transferred it to floppy disk so he could work on his laptop computer over the weekend.

When he shut down the computer, J.T. pushed away from his desk and worked the kinks from his neck and shoulders. He glanced sideways to note that his three younger male employees had already called it quits for the day and that they were smiling at him for no apparent reason.

“Is there a problem?” he asked as he surged to his feet.

“No,” the young men chorused, still smiling enigmatically. “Have a nice weekend, boss.”

J.T. nodded, then waited for the men to precede him out the door. He grabbed the plastic bag of clothes he planned to drop off at the dry cleaners, checked his watch again and then locked the door behind him.

Right on time, as usual, he noted as he stuffed the shop keys in the pocket of his black suit. He would swing by the cleaners at 6:11 p.m., just as he did every Friday, then drive to his apartment to pop in a microwaveable turkey-and-dressing TV dinner.

J.T. skidded to a halt on the sidewalk and his eyes popped when he noticed the two flat tires on the driver’s side of his older-model gray sedan. “Well, damn,” he muttered. This was going to throw off his regular routine by a half hour—maybe more.

Scowling at the inconvenience, J.T. looked up and down the deserted street, then frowned as the fire-engine red Jeep Cherokee—that seemed to come from out of nowhere at lightning speed—ground to a stop beside him. To his surprise, a smiling blue-eyed blonde, wearing a bright blue T-shirt that was plastered with stars and stripes, a pair of screaming red shorts and hiking boots, bounded from the vehicle like a jack-in-the-box.

“Is this your car?” she asked all too cheerfully for J.T.’s sedate tastes.

He appraised the female who looked to be in her mid-twenties. He wasn’t sure if he should salute this personification of the American flag or answer her. He decided on the latter. “Er…yes, it’s my car,” he mumbled, focusing on the flat tires rather than the woman’s flashy appearance and blinding smile. Flamboyantly dressed blondes with one-hundred-watt smiles and more energy than they knew what to do with didn’t appeal to him—and for good reason.

“I’ll give you a lift to the service station,” she offered, then stuck out her hand to introduce herself. “I’m Moriah Randell.”

Again, J.T. felt the ridiculous urge to salute. Instead, he shook her hand, marveling at her decisive grip. But then, he mused, her firm handshake really shouldn’t surprise him. Bubbling spirit, vitality and independence—hence her American flag ensemble—fairly crackled around her. She was about as easy to ignore as a hurricane or earthquake, and she came on so strong that J.T. reflexively withdrew into his own space.

“I’m J. T. Prescott,” he murmured as he resituated the pile of laundry, briefcase and laptop in both arms.

“Here, let me help you with that stuff,” she volunteered.

Before J.T. could accept or reject her offer, Moriah scooped up his precious possessions.

A most peculiar sensation assailed him when Moriah confiscated his laptop and briefcase. It was as if she had suddenly amputated extensions of his hands. She juggled the objects as if they were insignificant pieces of junk and that didn’t set well with J.T. “Hey, be careful with that stuff,” he cautioned as she strode quickly around the side of her SUV. “Those happen to be my stock-in-trade—” His voice fizzled into a groan when she unceremoniously dumped both prized possessions on the back seat.

Moriah flashed him another dazzling smile that made her blue eyes sparkle like polished jewels. The thick ropelike braid of blond hair slithered over her shoulder as she plunked behind the steering wheel.

When she motioned for him to join her, he resigned himself to accepting the young woman’s assistance. With a sigh, J.T. climbed into the brightly colored vehicle. He barely had time to shut the door before Moriah stamped on the accelerator and whizzed off. Jeez, he’d just climbed onboard with the female version of Evel Knievel, he mused as he hurriedly fastened his seat belt.

J.T. glanced over to appraise Moriah’s fire-engine-red fingernails, red hoop earrings and jangling red-white-and-blue bracelets. He also noticed there wasn’t a wedding ring on her finger, not that he cared one way or another, of course.

Who the hell dressed this woman? Conservative and conventional were obviously foreign concepts to her. He decided loud clothes were an essential warning that signaled the arrival of this female cyclone. She appeared to be the kind of individual who walked right in and took over. For sure and certain, she bustled J.T. off in whirlwind fashion!

“Would you mind slowing down?” J.T. requested as they zipped down the street. “I’d like to live to see my thirty-sixth birthday, if you don’t mind.”

“You don’t find speed exhilarating? You don’t like the feel of the wind in your hair?” she asked, still smiling radiantly.

Her perpetual smile was really beginning to bug him. She was beginning to bug him. She was too cheerful, too bouncy, too vibrant, too feminine, too reckless, too…everything! Plus, the alluring scent of her perfume was clogging his senses and the narrow confines of the Jeep didn’t allow enough room for him to avoid breathing her in.

“Hey!” J.T. erupted as he glanced out the side window. “You buzzed right by the service station!”

She turned that high-voltage smile on him again. “I did it on purpose.”

J.T. frowned warily as Moriah increased speed and sailed onto the ramp that merged with the interstate highway. “What the hell is going on here, lady?” he demanded to know that very second.

She grinned impishly. “The name is Moriah, remember?”

“Yeah, whatever.” J.T. gnashed his teeth and braced himself when she switched over to the fast lane of rush hour traffic. “Am I being kidnapped? I should warn you that I’m not carrying much cash. I never carry much cash. Demanding a ransom for my return is a complete waste of time.”

“You aren’t being kidnapped. You’re being escorted to Triple R,” she said, as if that explained everything.

It didn’t. Not to J.T.’s satisfaction. “What the hell is Triple R?” he demanded gruffly.

“Randell’s Resort Ranch.”

“Ranch? You work at a ranch and you dress like that?” he asked, then smirked.

One delicate blond brow arched as she spared him a quick glance. “You don’t like my clothes?”

“Lady, I’m not sure I even like you, especially after you kidnapped me, so don’t get me started on your clothes!”

She chuckled at the insult, then crossed two lanes of heavy traffic to roar down the off ramp. “I was told to expect this kind of reaction from you, Jake.”

“The name is J.T.,” he said through gritted teeth.

“J.T. sounds too stuffy. I prefer to call you Jake, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. And who the hell told you to kidnap me? My employees? Is that why they were grinning at me as if they were sharing some sort of conspiracy? They’ve been whining that I’ve been working them too hard lately. I should’ve known something was going on—”

“It was your sisters,” she interrupted as she swerved onto a two-lane road and headed north to only God, and this personification of the American flag, knew where!

“Kim and Lisa are responsible for this abduction?” he croaked in disbelief.

Moriah nodded as she set the SUV on cruise. The thick rope of braided blond hair rippled over her shoulder and curled against the swell of her full breasts. J.T. did his gentlemanly best not to dwell on her curvaceous figure and the long expanse of tanned legs.

It dawned on him that the impact of meeting Moriah—what with her flashy attire and cheery smile—served to momentarily distract a man from her very shapely, very feminine figure. But once you were enclosed in a vehicle with her, and spared her more than a casual glance, you couldn’t help but notice her striking good looks and appealing physique, despite those god-awful, bold-colored clothes. Yet, after seeing Moriah’s representation of Old Glory, you couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be wearing tomorrow.

“Kim and Lisa contacted me because I run a resort ranch that caters to businessmen who’ve forgotten how to slow their hectic pace and relax. According to your concerned sisters your life revolves around your graphic art shop. They’re giving you a two-week, all-expenses-paid vacation at my ranch.”

“What!” J.T. exploded angrily. “I don’t want or need a two-week, all-expenses-paid vacation!”

Moriah grinned at him, undaunted by his booming voice and erupting temper. “Oh, and by the way, Kim and Lisa said to tell you happy birthday.”

“Birthday?” J.T. parroted. Well, damn. Sunday was his birthday, come to think of it. He’d been so intensely focused on creating a spectacular Web site for his new client that he’d forgotten. But birthday or not, he wasn’t spending the next two weeks at some ranch in the boon-docks that was run by this all too cheery, wild-driving female.

“Stop the damn car and turn it around,” J.T. ordered brusquely. “I don’t have time for a forced vacation. I have work to do and a business to run.”

“Everything is going to be fine, Jake—”

“J.T.” he growled in correction.

“Just calm down,” she soothed him. “I’m the recreation director at the ranch and I’ve been trained in stress management. I can tell that you’re entirely too tense.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so tense if you’d slow this car down!”

Smiling in amusement—at his expense, he had no doubt—Moriah decreased her speed. “There now, Jake. Happy?”

“Not particularly,” he said, and scowled.

“I understand that you’re feeling a little testy. Stress does that to a person. After you kick back and relax for a few days you’re going to be amazed how refreshed and rejuvenated you feel.”

He glared thunderclouds on her sunny smile. “I am as relaxed as I ever intend to get!”

Her carefree laughter was getting on the one good nerve he had left. “Your voice is rising, Jake,” she pointed out calmly.

“Well, so is my temper!” he all but shouted. “I have a business to run. My employees won’t take work seriously if I’m not there to keep their noses to the grindstone. I have no intention of allowing my shop to go down the toilet.”

“But if you don’t take time to get back in touch with your inner self and break your rigid routine, you’ll be too stressed out to run your business effectively,” Moriah said reasonably. “You might find yourself snapping impatiently at your clients or employees. That certainly wouldn’t be good for business, now would it?”

“My inner self?” J.T. snorted derisively at that. “My rigid routine?”

“Yes, let’s start with that,” Moriah suggested as she hung a sharp right turn and zoomed down a gravel road, taking J.T. farther into the outback of Oklahoma’s wooded hill country. “You’ve become a creature of habit and you’ve forgotten how to sit back and enjoy life.”

“I most certainly have not,” he snapped in fierce denial. “I know how to relax as well as the next person.”

“Really?” she challenged, flashing him another of those annoyingly captivating smiles. “Then let me ask you a few questions.”

“Hell, I didn’t know there would be a test. Do I get time to study?”

Moriah chuckled in amusement, though he was striving for snide and sarcastic. But apparently nothing irritated Miss Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. It made him want to try harder to tick her off.

“What time do you get up every morning?” she asked.

“Six o’clock. Is that a problem?” he said defiantly.

“Only if you do it every single morning. Do you work on your business projects before you leave for your office?”

“Yes,” he muttered grudgingly.

“Do you wake up at night, and also notice at various times of the day—like now—that you’re gritting your teeth and have to force yourself to unclamp your jaw? Do you find yourself tensely knotting your fists—like you are now—and have to tell yourself to unclench?”

J.T. glowered at her as he uncurled his knotted fists and slackened his jaw, but he refused to reply. Okay, so he was a little tense. Who wasn’t?

“Do you eat breakfast?”

“Yes, at 7:42 a.m. I use the drive-through window at the doughnut shop to pick up coffee and a cinnamon twist. So you see, I do take time for breakfast,” he assured her flippantly.

“Cinnamon twist and coffee every morning of the week? No deviation from routine? No variation of food whatsoever? You sound pretty predictable, Jake,” she said as she tossed him a knowing smile.

Uh-oh, J.T. could see where this line of questioning was headed. Moriah was trying to point out that he was a stickler for a strict schedule. Well, so what if he was? When a man ran a business that was as successful as J.T.’s had been the past ten years, he had to organize his time wisely and follow a structured routine. Otherwise, he’d never get anything done—and he had a helluva lot to do, too.

“So…you arrive at your office and go right to work, I presume. What time is your lunch break, Jake?”

He shifted uneasily in the bucket seat. He didn’t bother with a lunch break. Hadn’t bothered in years, he suddenly recalled. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her that!

“I have a gourmet meal catered around high noon,” he lied without compunction.

She shot him a glance that indicated she didn’t believe him. So, what did he care? He didn’t care, he assured himself. And furthermore, she wasn’t going to get another straight answer from him. He wasn’t going to give her the ammunition to analyze him to death.

“You exit your shop at six p.m. and drive home—except for today when your sisters purposely let the air out of your tires and asked me to personally escort you to the resort,” she continued.

J.T. gnashed his teeth. His kid sisters were definitely going to pay for having him shanghaied. Damn it, he’d made one personal sacrifice after another for them for years on end. He’d cared for them, provided for them and consoled them after their parents died unexpectedly in a boating accident during a vacation. The tragedy had changed the entire course of his family’s life, not to mention the excessive pressure put on him to assume full responsibility for Kim and Lisa.

“So, Jake, what do you do every day when you get home from work?” she prompted when he lingered too long in thought.

J.T. was really getting PO’d at the rapid-fire questions, with the entire turn of events that left him Miss Vivacious’s prisoner in this speeding vehicle. Although he did follow a monotonous diet of TV dinners and canned food, he did jog, pump iron and then work on his business accounts in the evening. But he wasn’t going to confide that he ate frozen chicken teriyaki on Monday and canned spaghetti and meatballs on Tuesday—and so on—to Moriah. In fact, he wasn’t going to tell her the truth about himself or his daily habits because it was none of her business.

“I enjoy fabulous meals prepared by my housekeeper and cook. Her name is Stella,” he said, improvising as he went along.

“Mmm,” was all she said in response. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought Moriah had swallowed a snicker.

“Then I shower and change before I pick up one of my dates,” he said, weaving a fairy tale of lies that would throw Moriah off track.

“You date a lot then?” she asked, eyes twinkling, lips twitching.

“Continuously,” he said with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. “Different woman every night of the week. Variety is the spice of life, I always say.”

“And what do you and your dates do for entertainment?” she inquired as she veered down another gravel road that circled around the steep hillsides, taking him deeper into the middle of nowhere.

“We have sex,” J.T. told her outrageously. “Lots and lots of sex. Isn’t that the best form of relaxation for stressed-out businessmen like me?”

He really knocked her for a loop, he thought triumphantly. Her bewitching smile faltered and she cleared her throat. J.T. was so enormously pleased that he’d managed to rattle his abductor that he pushed the tall tale to the limit. “Really kinky sex. Erotic sex. I love sex. The more the better. It recharges my battery, so to speak.”

She made a strangled sound and kept her eyes on the road. “Interesting,” she tweeted.

“Exceptionally interesting. After all that heavy breathing and wild, mind-numbing sex I usually soak in my hot tub for a half hour.” He’d never taken time to soak in a hot tub in his life, truth be told. And the truth wouldn’t be told to Moriah.

“And what do you think about when you allow your mind to wander, Jake?”

He thought about his accounts every spare minute of the day, but he’d rather fire a couple of bullet holes into his foot than tell her because, sure as shootin’, she’d make something of it. “I think of unique places and inventive ways to have sex. I try not to use the same position twice.”

J.T. mentally patted himself on the back when Moriah’s face turned a fascinating shade of pink. This, by damn, should teach her not to pry into his personal life. He did not need stress management. He did not need to relax and he damn sure did not need a two-week vacation out here in nowhereville! His sisters should have their heads examined for scheming against him, damn it!

“Ah, here we are,” Moriah commented a few minutes later.

J.T. glanced out the window to survey ten, carbon-copy log cabins that were tucked beneath the canopy of shady cottonwood, elm and cedar trees. The resort was nestled beside a meandering river in a spacious valley between the rolling hills. A large stone-and-timber lodge sat in the middle of the well-manicured compound. A bunkhouse-style apartment complex sat off to the north side. A monstrous stable was butted up against a nearby hill.

The ranch was a cross between an isolated mountain retreat and the palatial plantations he’d visited as a kid during family vacations in Louisiana and Mississippi.

J.T. did admit the area was panoramic and serene, but it definitely wasn’t the kind of place J. T. Prescott wanted to waste time. And this was unquestionably a waste of his valuable time. He had things to do and he had no intention of doing them here—especially under the supervision of Miss Cheery and Chipper! The way he had it figured, if he smarted off often enough and put up plenty of belligerent resistance, Moriah would write him off as a lost cause and take him back to town so he could get back to doing what he did best—working relentlessly.

That was his plan and he was sticking with it.

“I’ll introduce you to the staff before I show you to your cabin,” she said as she bounded from the SUV.

J.T. frowned, wondering if Moriah always exuded this much bubbling energy and enthusiasm or if she put on an act for her stressed-out guests. His lips curled in objection when Moriah carelessly scooped his belongings off the back seat and made a beeline for the gargantuan lodge.

“I’ll take those,” he insisted. He followed quickly on her heels, willfully ignoring the hypnotic sway of curvy hips encased in trim-fitting red cotton. Instead, he concentrated on his mission of retrieving his delicate electronic equipment and floppy disks.