Husband For Hire

CHAPTER FIVE

ROB FELT COMPETELY buoyant with relief as he left the dais. Behind him, the auctioneer chose a new victim and started describing his charms while the hooting and hollering of the audience started up again. Rob’s part was over. But he still wanted that beer.

The jogging-suit ladies went to settle up with the auction officials, so he made his way to the concession stand, savoring a cold beer from a keg. Then he took a cellular phone out of his pocket and dialed Lauren’s number.

When she answered, he couldn’t contain his laughter. “I think you’ve lost me forever.”

“You mean the auction is over? So soon?”

“My part, anyway.”

“So tell me.” He could picture her curling up on her black suede sofa and wished like hell he could curl up with her. “I want to hear everything.”

He took a sip of his beer. “Okay, they made me go first.”

“Because you’re worth the most, darling.”

“Because it was alphabetical,” he said with a wry smile. “Anyway, the bidding went round and round, but you’ll never guess who I ended up with.”

“I don’t want to guess. Just tell me.”

“Somebody named Spinelli. Yeah, I think that’s her name.”

“Sugar Spinelli?”

“You know her?”

“Oil money. Scads of it. Everyone knows her.”

“Lauren, your ‘everyone’ isn’t quite the same as my ‘everyone.”’ He knew she didn’t mean to, but when she said “everyone,” she gave it a slightly exclusive emphasis. Excluding people like Rob.

“She’s ancient, Rob. Why on earth would she bid at a bachelor auction?”

“Beats me. I figure maybe she wants a grandson for a day.” The jogging-suit ladies finished with the auction officials and came toward him, chattering away as they neared the pavilion. “I think I’m about to find out,” he said to Lauren. “Call you later.”

He set down his beer and put on his best smile. “Ladies,” he said. “How do you do?”

“We’re fine, Robert,” said Mrs. Spinelli. “May we call you Robert?”

“Please. It’s Rob.”

“Used to be Robbie,” the other lady, the one in the pink suit, said.

That caught his attention. He studied her hard for a moment. A cloud of bluish-white hair. Square wire-rimmed glasses. A face that held a winning combination of maternal softness, youthful mischief and something else. Steely determination.

“Mrs. Duckworth!”

“Well, thank goodness. I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

“It’s been a long time.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, at a loss. How did you greet your ex-third-grade teacher? Did you call her ma’am? Offer to clean the erasers for her?

She took the decision away from him, opening her arms. “I daresay you’ve changed more than I.”

Rob gave her a brief hug, then stepped back, feeling awkward again. “Thank you,” he said to Mrs. Spinelli. “Your generosity was incredible. I know the ranch will put your gift to good use.”

“Honey,” she said with a wink, “I intend to put you to good use.”

His blood ran cold. For a second, he thought she meant…Lord, no way.

Mrs. Duckworth must have recognized the panic in his face. She took him by the arm and led him away from the concession area. “Sugar, we’d better get on with the plan so Robbie can make his arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” he asked stupidly.

“For your date.”

Oh, man. “And this date would be…?” he asked cautiously.

“Land sakes, not with us.” Mrs. Spinelli laughed. “Did you hear that, Theda? Isn’t he precious?” She took his other arm. “Dear boy, you’re charming, but not our type. This date is with someone else. Someone very special.”

His imagination went into overdrive. Maybe she had a psychotic daughter who’d been through a string of husbands. Or a loony niece desperate for a man….

“I’m listening,” he said, trying to look calm.

“You’re going on a dream date,” Mrs. Duckworth said.

“It’s all arranged,” Mrs. Spinelli added. “Right down to the last detail.”

He began to feel a little better, conjuring pictures of an ocean cruise, a night of dinner and theater in the city, a round of golf at a country club—

“To a high school reunion,” Mrs. Spinelli added.

The pictures crumbled to dust in his mind. Swaying palm trees gave way to crepe paper garlands draping some smelly gym. “Okay, let me get this straight. I’m taking somebody to her high school reunion.”

“Next weekend,” said Mrs. Duckworth. “It will be quite marvelous, you see. It’s being held at a town near Jackson, so you’ll have to fly there, but that won’t be a problem. We’ve already reserved seats on the commuter flight and we’ve booked the accommodations.”

“But you just…bought me,” he objected, feeling suspicious.

“Oh, dear, there was never any question that you would be the one. We read all about you in the catalog,” said Mrs. Spinelli. “She picked you out right away. I think it was that Armani tux.”

“No, the rose,” Mrs. Duckworth said. “The single red rose he was holding, Sugar. Don’t you think that was what pushed her over the edge?”

Lauren, he thought, hope soaring. Lauren had set this up as some sort of weird practical joke. She had been the one who insisted on the tux and the rose for his catalog picture. She knew Mrs. Spinelli. She was having fun with him, putting these ladies up to this.

“Now, there’s something we should clarify right off.” Mrs. Spinelli aimed a stern look at him. “This is important. You have to pretend to be engaged.”

Rob laughed. It really was Lauren, then. Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent about marriage as he thought she was. Maybe she wanted to move their relationship to the next level. “Engaged, huh?”

“Oh, certainly.”

Enough of the dancing around. “All right, so Lauren put you up to this.”

The ladies exchanged a glance. Mrs. Duckworth scowled. “We don’t know anything about anyone called Lauren. We have no idea what you are talking about.”

Something told him they weren’t pulling his leg. Did they really mean to send him off to some stranger’s high school reunion?

He studied their guileless, church-lady faces. Damn straight they did.

“Sorry, ladies. I don’t think that’s part of the deal. This was supposed to be a date, not a deception.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” Mrs. Duckworth said in a scolding voice. “You never were any fun as a third-grader. I still remember how you used to hide in the cloakroom during make-believe time.”

“This date’s all arranged,” Mrs. Spinelli added, sounding miffed.

“I don’t think it would work out, ma’am.” He hadn’t meant to call her ma’am, just as he hadn’t meant to call Twyla ma’am earlier. It simply slipped out. It was odd, but he felt comfortable and at home with these well-meaning but wrongheaded little old ladies. He didn’t want to feel at home with them, didn’t want to feel the quiet, cozy unity of this small town. The friendly atmosphere of Lightning Creek had nothing to do with the life he had planned out for himself. The sooner he got back to Denver, the better.

“Look,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. “I’ll write you a check to cover what you spent today, and we’ll call things even.”

The older ladies sputtered in protest. As he was looking for a pen, he saw Twyla McCabe coming toward him, the folded quilt draped over her arm. “Good news,” she said, holding it out.

“Yeah? I could use some.”

“We just did the draw, and you won.”

So the day wasn’t a total loss. At least he had the quilt to show for it. “Thanks, Twyla.”

“You know each other already?” Mrs. Spinelli asked, clasping her hands. “Why, that’s perfect. Just perfect.”

Rob narrowed his eyes. These ladies might look like Betty Crocker, but they sure as hell weren’t all sugar and spice. “What’s perfect?”

“That you know each other.” Mrs. Duckworth spoke slowly and clearly in her teacher voice. “You can get started right away with your plans.”

Rob stared at Twyla McCabe. The silky red hair. Big, soft eyes. Light dusting of freckles. A weary, workaday prettiness and a knockout figure to die for. Everything about her screamed small-town girl.

“It’s you then,” he said in amazement. “It’s your reunion.”

“Twyla’s ten-year reunion,” Mrs. Duckworth proclaimed. “You two are going to have such a marvelous weekend.”

“That’s the other thing I came to talk about,” Twyla said, clearly exasperated.

Rob was stunned. Yet at the same time, without quite knowing why, he put his checkbook away.

THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN as Twyla carried the quilt table to her truck, Brian trotting along beside her. An evening chill sharpened the air, bringing with it a low warble of birdsong and the green scent of fresh-cut grass. She had avoided Rob Carter all the rest of the day, watching the festivities with a sense of nervous energy and impending disaster. Each time he seemed inclined to approach her, she busied herself with some chore or other, even volunteering for a stint at the lemonade booth. Finally, when the last bachelor had been auctioned off, it was time to go.

Brian, who had made a full recovery from the motion sickness, had spent the day playing, eating, shouting and throwing things with his friends. He’d ignored the auction itself, showing no interest or understanding of its purpose. He didn’t know what Mrs. Duckworth and Mrs. Spinelli had done. That was fine with Twyla, since she wasn’t going to make Rob Carter go through with it, anyway.

Near the end of the auction, Brian had caught an inkling of what was going on. Visiting her at the lemonade booth, he’d asked her, “If someone buys one of these guys, does the guy have to do whatever she says?”

Twyla had smiled. “Within reason.”

“For how long?”

“I imagine they work that out between them.”

“So they should make the guys stay here and be the dads, right?”

A six-year-old’s logic was hard to contradict. She shouldn’t have asked Brian, but she did. “You think these boys all need a dad?”

“Yeah.”

She hadn’t dared to ask the next obvious question: What about you, Brian? Do you need a dad?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to that.

“Sammy Crowe says Mrs. Spinelli bought that guy named Rob, and that he’s supposed to do whatever you want.”

“Lucky me,” Twyla said. “You got any ideas?”

“Are you kidding?” Brian’s face had lit up. “I got a million of them.”

She’d tried to subdue his enthusiasm, warning him that there had been a misunderstanding, but the whole weird situation was hard to explain.

“Church tomorrow, sport,” she said now, opening the door to the old Apache, buckling him in and covering him with a blanket. He took out his favorite Dinotopia book and opened it, yawning hugely. She knew that within minutes, he’d be sound asleep.

As Twyla walked around the front of her pickup truck, she had the unsettling sense that she was being watched. She caught a daunting reflection in the glass of the windshield, glaringly gold from the setting sun. She set down the folded card table and turned. There stood Dr. Robert Carter with his gleaming dark hair and an expectant half smile, watching her in a way no man had watched her in a very long time—with interest and appreciation and maybe just the slightest hint of tenderness. He looked, she had to admit, exactly like the type of man someone would pay twelve thousand dollars for.

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