“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!

The Bachelor Bid
Kate Denton

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?”

Cara gave her brother and sister a wan smile. Ever since Brooke had gotten on the Wyatt kick. Cara had been complaining to her siblings about her doomed crusade. “What else? Wyatt McCauley, the bane of my existence. I’ve tried every maneuver I can think of to get him to agree to that dratted auction. I’m flat out of ideas. You two got any brilliant suggestions?”

“Maybe you should just ask him to do it as a personal favor to you...” Meg said, batting her eyes exaggeratingly.

“Maybe I should make you ask him.” Cara shook her head at Meg’s antics.

“No way. But what’s wrong with your using a more personal touch?”

“Meg, the man only knows me well enough not to like me very much. He thinks I’m...well, I’m not sure what he thinks, only it’s not good. But Flake likes me, don’t you, sweetums?” The cat butted its head against Cara’s hand to demand she scratch his ears.

“If the guy knew as much about babes as he does computers, he’d think you were a complete wow,” Mark defended.

“Thanks, honey, but I’m not the wow type, especially to men like McCauley—who, by the way, is no slouch in the looks department. Gorgeous women by the score are just begging to have their numbers entered in his personal Rolodex. There’s no space for someone who’s merely average, like me.”

“Quit underrating yourself, Cara. You’ve got a lot going for you. Smart...pretty.”

“And a brother who’s prejudiced.”

“No, for once in his life, Marko’s on target,” Meg joined in. “You are date bait. You just need to get out more, to mingle. All you do is work and take care of us. It’s not fair to you.”

“I like taking care of you.” Cara had been doing so for the past seven years, ever since their parents were killed in an automobile accident. At the time Cara was barely twenty-one, Meg and Mark twelve and thirteen, respectively. The bond between the three was irrevocable. “Have you got complaints?”

“Not a one.” Meg stood behind Cara’s chair and massaged her sister’s knotted shoulder muscles. “But what happens when we leave the nest? When you’re on your own—all alone—wondering where your life went, where all the good men went.”

“Oh, I oughta have a couple of years left to find someone after I get rid of you two, thank you very much. That is, if there actually are any ‘good men’ out there.”

“That experience with Don has given you an attitude,” Meg scolded, abandoning the massage and circling the sofa to sit by Cara. “Just because he let you down doesn’t mean—”

“Learning Don’s true nature was traumatic,” Cara said, “and an experience I don’t care to repeat.”

From the day she’d met Don Axton, Cara had deferred to him totally. Don loved running the show and she’d followed his every dictate, catered to his every whim. Then when she’d desperately needed him to lean on, he’d suffered a meltdown like a hailstone after a summer storm. But he’d left behind a new doctrine for Cara. Never again would she abdicate control of her life. And if she ever allowed a guy to get close, it would be one she could depend on to stick around.

“But if you don’t open yourself up, take some risks...” Meg was obviously intent on continuing her gloomy forecast for Cara’s fate—the fate Cara could expect unless she took action now.

Meg was a smart girl, an honors student majoring in Textiles and Apparel, her eventual goal to design under her own label of high-fashion clothing. But despite the brains and ambition, Meg was also given to flights of fancy. Time for Cara to rein her in. “Enough discussion of my love life—”

“What love life?” her sister persisted. “If you don’t watch out, that ship will have sailed without you.”

“Great. According to you, now I’ve got two things to fret about—the auction and my dull, dreary future. Thanks a lot. I think I’ll go console myself with food. Have you all eaten?” Cara rose and started toward the kitchen, her brother and sister tagging along.

They were almost through their tuna casserole when Meg leaned forward on her elbows, her eyebrows—blond and arched like Cara’s—now pinched together. “We’ve got to figure out a new strategy.”

“Strategy for what?” Cara asked warily.

“For snagging the Great McCauley, of course.”

Cara sighed. If there was any subject less appealing at suppertime than a lost love, it was Wyatt McCauley.

“I’m pretty sure he jogs at Town Lake every morning. My friend Ginger has seen him there two or three times. She likes to follow him, to watch his moves. Says he has great buns, says—”

“Meg, is there a point to this?”

“Oh, yeah... well, tomorrow’s Saturday, see. You could get there before he arrives and sort of accidentally on purpose run into him, then—”

“I’d like to run into him,” Mark broke in. “Hard. Then when he’s lying on his back, let him know how difficult he’s making it for Cara with her boss.”

Cara smiled. “Thanks, guys, but I don’t think either method of running into him would help my cause.”

“Mine might,” Meg said, refusing to give up on her idea. “He’ll be on an exercise high, in a great mood, you’ll ask him again and—kaboom!—he’ll consent.”

“I can’t imagine anyone getting in a good mood by working up a sweat.” Cara hated exercise. As far as she was concerned, workouts—the fewer the better—were to be endured the same as spinach or broccoli on the dinner plate. Just because something was good for you didn’t make it palatable. “I have no desire to mix with that throng of physical fitness buffs at Town Lake,” she said. “Especially on the first Saturday in weeks when I don’t have to work. I prefer to use my day off for something useful—like sleeping late.”

“Listen to yourself,” Meg scolded. “Preferring sleeping to meeting guys. I’ve met some fine—”

“Meg!” Cara’s hand signaled “stop.” “First, Wyatt McCauley’s a business project, not a potential romance. Second, he’s my problem to solve, not yours. You’ve got your own concerns to deal with...like school. That reminds me—when are midterms scheduled?”

“You sure know how to kill a conversation,” Mark groaned, then he and Meg began filling Cara in on their course activities.

The meal over, Meg and Mark were studying and Cara was washing the dinner dishes when the telephone rang.

“Well?”

The caller was Brooke. The one-word question—and the fact Brooke was phoning from Dallas just hours after Cara had seen her off from the Austin airport—spoke volumes. Cara might be able to quiet Mark and Meg on the subject of Wyatt McCauley, but she wasn’t about to silence her boss. Like it or not, Cara had to try, try again.

Meg’s informant had been correct. Less than a hundred yards away, chugging toward her, was McCauley—head erect, body balanced, intense and wide awake. Cara couldn’t say the same thing for herself. She stifled an emerging yawn and pretended to stretch her muscles as she surreptitiously watched his advance. The closer he got, the better he looked.

He was dressed in a gray T-shirt and skimpy gray running shorts, his legs tanned and well-proportioned. The man’s body was as perfect as his face.

Self-consciously Cara stared down at her own bare legs, which seldom saw the sun, thanks to long work hours. True, there was no cellulite...yet, but the color was a hospital white. Why should I care how I look? This isn’t about me. Yet Cara had begun to feel as though it was.

Resisting an urge to trip the man for yesterday’s upbraiding, Cara trotted up beside him, praying she could maintain the pace long enough to pitch the auction again.

Without breaking stride, he gave her a surprised flick of the eye. “Well, hello, Ms. Breedon. Fancy meeting you here.”

The edge in his tone wasn’t unexpected. “I happened to spy you jogging my way...decided to see if you’ve reconsidered helping us out.”

“I did help—two checks, remember?”

“Your presence would aid even more,” she said in a slightly breathy voice.

“No can do. Sorry.” He sped up.

She sped up, too, determined not to lose him. “Are you sure?” Her voice was now jagged.

“Positive.”

“Can’t I—” pant, pant “—say anything to change your mind?”

“I think you’ve said it all. Might as well give it up.”

“I—” gasp “—can’t take—” another gasp “—no for an answer.”

He glanced over at her, then began slowing before stopping altogether. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit down before you collapse.”

Gratefully Cara dropped onto the grass. She took in great gulps of air and mopped her brow with a soggy tissue from her pocket. She guessed her face to be the shade of a boiled lobster from the physical exertion. After only a brief jog, her clothes were plastered to her body, wild strands of hair escaping from her ponytail.

It wasn’t fair that, even sweaty, he still looked wonderful. The damp T-shirt clinging to his chest only emphasized his pectoral muscles and washboard torso.

Wyatt pulled a terry-cloth towel from his waistband to dry his face and neck, leaned against a tree to do a couple of calf stretches, then flopped down beside her, trying to come to terms with the rush of exhilaration he’d felt on seeing Cara. Every time he thought he’d brushed off the woman, she was back, as relentless as gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. So why in Hades should he be secretly glad to see her? Anyone with the brains of a gnat would be seizing the advantage of superior conditioning and making a getaway. But not you, McCauley—you blew it. Well, he’d simply have to use other means to discourage her from this ceaseless pursuit.

He waited until Cara’s breathing had settled then took her hand. “Listen, sweet cakes...” Cara yanked the hand away, but not before Wyatt’s fingertips had memorized the softness of her skin.

So she objects to being called “sweet cakes.” Wyatt smiled. Or is it the touch she objects to?

He had to admit that she was cute, especially now, all warm and rosy-cheeked. Those tender feelings were resurfacing. Whatever he tried to tell himself, part of him didn’t want to get rid of Cara Breedon. Part of him... He stole a peek at her again and felt the temptation to smooth back one of those wayward wisps of golden hair.

Seeming to read his thoughts, Cara brushed at the unruly hair herself. As she did, Wyatt couldn’t help noticing—no wedding ring. Cara Breedon was not only cute, she was available. Cool it, McCauley. You’re growing soft in the head. The lady’s marital status is irrelevant. Remember her mission. He should be taking steps to stop this paparazzi-like hounding. Since plain talk and directness didn’t seem to work, maybe it was time for a different approach, a little reverse psychology.

Wyatt took Cara’s hand again and held it. When she tried to pull away, he held tighter. “Don’t be standoffish,” he chided. “You’ve caught my attention like you wanted, so tell me about yourself.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Still holding on to her, he lay back, pulling her down beside him. “Oh, don’t be so modest. Surely there is. Who’s the real Cara Breedon?”

She quickly sat up and scooted a few feet away. “No one important.”

“Ah, but important enough to have wormed her way into my life.” He sat up and moved nearer, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Are you going to do the auction or not?” Cara blurted.

“I might be tempted...with the proper incentive.” He grinned knowingly and, cupping her chin, pulled it toward him, his eyes growing smoky as his lips edged closer.

Cara jerked back.

“Don’t act so coy,” he drawled, the eyes now twinkling. “After all, you’ve been after me for weeks.”

Was he serious or simply toying with her? Cara disliking both scenarios, shifted farther away, drawing Wyatt’s laughter.

“I hope you’re having fun,” she huffed.

“That I am.”

“Well, fun or not, I don’t appreciate your conduct one bit.”

“Maybe I merely wanted to see how far you’d go to please your boss...” Wyatt let the taunt hang in the air. He was still smiling.

“Believe me, not that far,” Cara answered, staggering to her feet. Oh, what she’d give to swipe away that cocky grin of his.

“Well, if you have a change of heart—”

“You don’t quit, do you?”

“Something we have in common.”

“It’s the only thing.” Cara staggered off as fast as her wobbly legs could manage, feeling Wyatt’s eyes on her every inch of the trek to the parking lot. She crawled into her car and slammed the door. “That does it! I’m through with that...that exasperating man. Nothing’ll make me have anything more to do with him. Not even Brooke threatening me with insubordination.” Cara continued the ranting all the way home.

True to her word, Cara remained steadfast against Brooke’s nudges all week, each time telling her, “It’s no use.” If it was to be a choice between appeasing Brooke or enduring another minute with McCauley, then Brooke’s happiness would have to be sacrificed.

“You know I’m not free to handle this myself,” Brooke complained. “Am I going to have to assign it to someone else?”

The moment of reckoning was at hand. “I suppose you are,” Cara answered evenly. “He’s resisted every single overture. My bag of tricks is empty.” Cara was not about to reveal Wyatt’s unseemly proposition.

“But everyone’s tied up on the new project,” Brooke argued, unwilling to accept Cara’s throwing in the towel.

Cara shrugged.

“The programs must go to the printer,” Brooke whined.

“Absolutely,” Cara said. “The auction’s only two weeks from tomorrow.”

“We still ought to compile a bio, prepare some publicity on Wyatt, in case he relents.”

“He’s not going to.”

Steadfast or not, Cara’s patience with the subject had run its course. She’d love to have a punching bag with Wyatt McCauley’s image on it. And a dartboard with Brooke’s. The two of them had made her a wreck. One as overbearing as a rottweiler and the other as tenacious as a rat terrier.

Brooke would probably still be hammering away about Wyatt the night of the auction. But at least she’d finally yielded to the reality that the programs couldn’t wait. They would be at the printer’s first thing Friday morning.

On the way home that afternoon, Cara picked up her brother and sister from the university library, then stopped at Central Market for groceries. As she pulled into the parking space, Mark and Meg spotted a group of friends on the patio of the market restaurant and scurried to join them, leaving Cara to shop alone. She was weighing tomatoes when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around.

“We meet again.” It was Wyatt McCauley. “I’ve missed you,” he said. “Almost a week and no contact.”

“I’m sure you’ve been waiting with bated breath.” She set the tomatoes in her shopping cart and began examining the bell peppers, doing her darnedest to ignore the man hovering over her.

He picked up a large pepper and held it out to her. “This looks like a good one.”

“I like these better.” Rejecting the proffered pepper, she bagged two others and moved to weigh them. Wyatt was right beside her.

“Trying to snare another bachelor for the auction with a home-cooked meal?”

Cara rolled her eyes and pushed her shopping cart away. Wyatt trailed behind her. “Are you a good cook?” he asked.

Stopping the cart, Cara glared at him. “Now what are you up to?”

“Nothing sinister. Just trying to learn more about you.” Wyatt’s expression was the picture of innocence. “As I said before, you’ve captured my attention. Surely you don’t mind my tagging along while you shop.”

“But I do mind, so stop it,” she hissed.

“No fun when you’re the one pursued instead of the pursuer, hmm?”

“Is that what this is all about? Revenge for my bothering you? Then I apologize. I most humbly apologize. Now leave me alone.”

“Have dinner with me.”

“As you can see, I already have dinner plans.” Cara gestured at her half-filled shopping cart.

“Change them.”

“I can’t.”

“Some starved guy waiting for you to fix his favorite meal?”

“Matter of fact, there is.” My brother. Mark was a bottomless pit, always hungry. Thank goodness he and Meg were occupied right now. She wanted no spectators at this ridiculous scene.

“Is he someone special?” There was pure seduction in Wyatt’s voice.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just sizing up the competition.”

“Competition? Believe me, there’s no competition.”

“That’s nice to know.”

“Hold it. Let me make myself crystal clear. There is no competition because you are not in the running for anything involving me. Besides, you’ll never convince me you’re really on the level.” Cara selected three chicken breasts and waited for the butcher to wrap them.

“It might be fun trying.” Wyatt draped an arm around her shoulder.

“What’s with you?” Cara asked, shrugging free. “Friday you were brusque, Saturday offensive, and now, now... Your behavior is definitely worsening.” She pointed toward a nearby store employee. “Do I need to ask for protection against more harassment?”

“Oh, I see,” he said with a knowing nod. “Okay for me to be harassed—at work no less, but when the tables are turned, the lady’s ready to scream ‘stalker.’ Is that how it goes?”

“I’ve already apologized for bothering you. What else can I do?”

“Have dinner with me. If not tonight, then tomorrow.”

She held her palms up. “Look. I explained that—”

“Tsk, tsk. What would your employer think? Passing up a golden opportunity to boost the auction again? A chance to lobby for your cause all evening.”

“And what good would it do? You’d still say ‘no.’ Or attach strings. As far as I’m concerned, your refusal to participate is final and I have no intention of asking you again. Goodbye, Mr. McCauley.”

“Surely not goodbye.” He gazed deeply into her eyes.

It was all Cara could do not to melt into a puddle at his feet. Wyatt McCauley seemed to inspire sappy behavior. “I’ve got to be going.”

“When will I see you again?”

“How about never?” She rolled her cart toward the front of the store.

Wyatt watched Cara push up to a checkout lane, braking the urge to follow. Wandering over to the coffee bins, he tried to figure out why the woman intrigued him so. She’d been nothing but a grade-A irritation, so why had he even approached her tonight, much less invited her to dinner? He’d only stopped at Central Market for coffee beans, milk and fresh fruit. But then he’d glimpsed Cara and his senses had gone haywire.

Foolish of him abetting her shenanigans on behalf of the bachelor auction. He was asking for trouble by stirring her up. She might start a new recruiting drive... Wyatt shook his head. He didn’t really believe that. Everything about Cara said she had washed her hands of him.

He’d like to change her attitude. His earlier words weren’t simply a line. He had missed her. There was something about Cara that commanded his thoughts, excited him. And Wyatt hadn’t been excited by a woman in a long, long time.

CHAPTER THREE

WYATT tore off a page of the yellow lined tablet he’d been doodling on and wadded it up, tossing the paper in a perfect arc toward the wastebasket where it joined a pile of other crushed missiles on the floor. At that moment Frances strode in and stopped, noting the empty wastebasket and its wreath of paper discards. “Busy today, I see. And your aim is rotten.”

“Did you come in here for a purpose or to criticize my throwing skills?”

“Grumpy, too.” She sat down in Wyatt’s armchair and eyed him.

He caught her gaze. “I’m not grumpy,” he said testily.

“What, then? You’ve been distracted all morning. Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing.” He remained silent for a minute. “Is there any reason I should feel guilty about refusing to be part of that circus?”

“What circus?”

“The bachelor auction.”

Frances studied him more closely. “No reason at all.”

“Right.”

“But you do?”

“Yeah. I suppose I do.”

“Because of Cara Breedon?”

“What makes you come up with a crazy idea like that?” He didn’t give Frances a chance to answer. “The Rosemund Center is providing a service to kids who wouldn’t have a chance in life without—”

“I’m sure the center is pleased to welcome you as an advocate and benefactor. Only that’s not what we’re talking about, is it?”

Wyatt smiled ruefully. Frances could read him all too well. Still, he refused to rise to the bait. “Donations aren’t everything,” he continued. “Giving one’s time is important, too. The auction also provides good publicity for the center. That’s why I feel guilty.”

“Of course it is.”

“Even though I find the idea distasteful, the fact is, I could spare a couple of evenings if I felt like it.”

“True.”

“Well, you’re a big help. You’re supposed to tell me not to sweat it, assure me I’m too busy...blah, blah, blah, and get me off the hook. Now you’ve made it worse. Some assistant you are.”

Frances laughed. “So fire me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Wyatt glanced at his watch. “Listen, tell Kenneth he may have to handle that staff meeting this afternoon. I’ll be out of the office for a while...don’t know when I’ll get back.” He reached for his jacket on the back of the chair. “See you later.”

Despite his sermonizing to Frances about needy causes, Wyatt didn’t deceive himself any more than he had her. His remorse today didn’t bear an ounce of altruism. Oh, the Rosemund Center was a worthwhile project, all right, but he couldn’t care less about joining in the auction. What he did care about, he realized, was knowing Cara Breedon better. And the cursed auction seemed to be the only way to accomplish that.

Cara read the spreadsheet on her computer screen. “Ah, it tallies,” she told herself. So engrossed was she in the financial report before her that when a hand from out of nowhere tapped her on the shoulder, she jumped, kicking the plug from the computer and causing the screen to go blank.

“Oh, no!” Wheeling around, she was even more shocked and annoyed to discover Wyatt McCauley behind her. “Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people like that?” she lashed out. “This is the second time you’ve done it, and this time you scared me half to death. Just look what you made me do!” She pointed toward the screen. “All my work...gone.”

“Sorry. Was it something important?”

“Of course it was important!” she said, gesturing wildly. “What did you think? That I was playing computer solitaire?” Cara picked up a stack of papers and shook them at him. “Now I have to do it over.”

“Surely you’ve been saving your work as you go along.”

She knew what he was thinking. Anyone familiar with computers learned quickly and painfully about the perils of not backing up work, and actually, all but these last entries had been saved. She was torn over whether to appear the dunce or admit that most of the report could easily be retrieved. Unfortunately she couldn’t have it both ways. “I’ll still have to do some of it over,” she complained.

“But not too much, I hope. Forget the report for now. Grab your purse and let’s go. Since you weren’t free for dinner last night, I’ve come to take you to lunch.”

“I see.” If McCauley thought this dictatorial stance would get him anywhere, he had another think coming. And Cara was about to tell him so except that one glance into those penetrating brown eyes almost made her reach for her purse as directed. But then she regained her equanimity.

Wyatt wasn’t really here for a lunch date with her. He was a successful businessman with demands on his time. Probably happened to be in the vicinity and decided to enjoy a second round of evening the score. “I don’t believe for an instant,” she added, “that you drove halfway across Austin to—”

Her buzzing intercom interrupted. “The report?” Brooke prompted.

“Will be ready in about thirty minutes.” If you and the rest of the world will leave me alone. Cara didn’t need Brooke’s nagging right now. Wyatt was enough to deal with... A satisfied grin appeared on her lips as a brainstorm popped into her head. She would divert Brooke’s attention and teach McCauley a thing or two at the same time.

“It’s just that Mr. McCauley is here,” she said into the intercom, “and—” As anticipated, Brooke clicked off and came rushing out of her office, a look of elation on her face.

“Wyatt, as I live and breathe!”

“Hello, Brooke. I came by to take Cara to lunch. To discuss the auction.”

A frown threatened to form between Brooke’s eyebrows before she rallied. “Then I’m the one you need to be having lunch with, silly. I am the chairman, after all.”

“Ms. Abbott’s right,” Cara agreed. “She’s the one you should be talking to about the auction.” She smiled sweetly at Wyatt as Brooke entwined an arm through his and pulled Wyatt toward her office.

“We can talk better here than in some noisy restaurant,” Brooke cooed as she ushered him through the door. “Excuse me just a sec.” She darted back to Cara. “Be a dear...call Marcel’s and order lunch. Oh, and postpone this afternoon’s session with the layout people until three.”

Step into my parlor... Cara thought with diabolical pleasure as she reached for her telephone.

Revenge was taking its toll. For the past hour and a half, Cara’d been an unwilling party to Brooke’s twitter and Wyatt’s laughter, and she was sick of it. She’d delayed her own lunch to complete the report, reschedule Brooke’s afternoon agenda and handle an emergency call, so she was not only put out, she was starving, too. Her stomach growled, underscoring her hunger pangs.

At two-thirty the pair finally emerged from Brooke’s office, Brooke wrapped around Wyatt like a love-struck anaconda. They came over to Cara’s desk. “Mr. McCauley has graciously consented to be part of the bachelor auction,” Brooke announced with unconcealed relish.

Cara, startled, looked up into Wyatt’s face. “He has?”

“And not just a simple evening, either,” Brooke gushed. “Wyatt’s date will have the pleasure of flying with him to New Orleans for an overnight stay.”

“How wonderful,” Cara said, hoping Wyatt could read the mockery in her tone.

“Isn’t it? This will be the highlight of the evening,” Brooke enthused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the bids top ten thousand, maybe twenty.”

What woman in her right mind would waste all that hard-earned cash just to spend a few hours with a brash, know-it-all like Wyatt McCauley? Cara asked herself, then heaved a sigh. Any woman who could afford it, that’s who. A woman like Brooke who was probably planning her travel wardrobe at this very moment.

“Oh, give Mr. McCauley our fax number,” Brooke said, “so his secretary can transmit the details.”

Dutifully, Cara grabbed a red pen, circled a number on one of Brooke’s business cards and held it out for Wyatt. When he walked over to pick it up, Cara heard him say under his breath, “I can hardly wait,” before he moved away.

That was strange. He’d been so adamant with his refusals. Surely a couple of hours with Brooke couldn’t have generated such a dramatic turnaround. Yet apparently it had. His previous “no” was now a “yes” and that megawatt smile beaming down on Brooke didn’t indicate a man who was anything but delighted to be a part of her auction.

He had to know Brooke’s ulterior motives. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the woman, and although a major aggravation, Wyatt was no fool. Then again, maybe he wanted Brooke as his date. Maybe that was why he’d not only agreed to the auction, but had expanded the prize from a single date into an entire weekend. From all appearances, Wyatt was as taken with Brooke as she was with him. So what do I care? I don’t. But watching the twosome grin like actors in a toothpaste commercial, Cara couldn’t help wishing something would foil their little plot for a romantic interlude in the name of charity. Charity indeed

Cara removed the papers from her printer and turned it off. She needed to get out of here, her rumbling stomach providing the perfect excuse. “Here’s the report. I’m off to lunch now,” she told Brooke.

“Wait up,” Wyatt called after her, “and I’ll ride down with you.” He kissed Brooke on the cheek. “See you at the auction.”

“Not sooner?” Brooke purred.

“We wouldn’t want anyone to think us in collusion—now would we?” His wink brought another broad smile from Brooke.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said almost with a giggle. Cara couldn’t believe her eyes and ears. Brooke, a tough-nut businesswoman, was simpering like a teenager.

Cara waited as Wyatt had instructed, mumbled, “Thank you,” when he opened the door to the hallway, then proceeded on her own toward the elevator, taking out her frustrations on the “down” button.

“Why so grim? I thought you’d be happy I’d decided to help you out.” He pulled Cara’s hand away before she could jab the button a fifth time.

“You aren’t helping me. All you’ve done is make me look inept in front of my boss. She got a job done that I couldn’t handle. You told her yes, not me. But I suppose it will benefit the Rosemund children. Someone’s bound to fork over substantial bucks for the pleasure of your company.” And we both know who.

“Someone like you?” he asked as they stepped onto the elevator.

“Hardly.”

“You are going to attend the auction, aren’t you?”

“Sure. But I’ll be there to work, not to bid.”

“You don’t know what you’ll be missing. It’ll be a memorable date. Dinner at Commander’s Palace, a cruise on the Mississippi by moonlight. Sure you don’t want to make an offer?”

“Is this more retaliation—making me spell it out in black and white? For your information I could no more compete in that auction than I could buy out General Motors.”

“Jeez, you’re a sorehead when you’re hungry.” Wyatt took her arm as they reached the ground floor. “Let’s get some lunch.”

“You had lunch.”

“I’ll have dessert.”

“You had that, too. I ordered from Marcel’s, remember?”

“I could squeeze in another one. An extra lap at Town Lake will work it off.”

“Look, I know I should be grateful you’re doing the auction—and I am. But I don’t want to have lunch with you. OK?”

“OK,” he said agreeably. “I’ll give you a reprieve—this time. See you at the auction.”

“You are stunning,” Meg pronounced. It was the night of the auction, and she was fluttering around Cara, admiring her own handiwork. Meg had insisted Cara wear one of the cocktail dresses she’d designed for a recent competition.

Even if her oldest sibling couldn’t afford the valet parking at the hotel, much less a thousand-plus dollars bid on one of the bachelors, she’d easily blend in with the horde of dressed-to-kill women scheduled to attend. “Good advertising for me,” Meg said, but Cara intuited another motive—proving that Big Sis could indeed look like date bait.

The black halter-style bodice bared both Cara’s shoulders and almost all of her spine inasmuch as it plunged to the waist at the back. The gown’s red skirt flared out in tiered ruffles, giving the costume a Spanish look. For a finishing touch Meg pinned her sister’s blond hair up and fashioned a small Spanish fan at the crown.

“There,” Meg said. “Fantastic!”

Cara studied her reflection. “It’s sorta far out, don’t you think? All that’s missing is a rose between my teeth.”

“Get real, Cara. For once you’re showing the world what a real glamour gal you can be. That clotheshorse Brooke will be so jealous.”

“Brooke has other things on her mind. She’ll be too preoccupied with her quarry to pay notice to anyone else.”

“How much moolah do you think she’ll ante up to ensure Wyatt leaves on her arm?”

“Whatever it takes. She will not be denied this opportunity. She’s been lusting after him for eons.”

Meg sat on the side of the bed. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have money enough to buy a fancy date like that?”

“Actually it’d be nice to have money enough for new tires.” Money. It had defined much of their existence the past seven years. “One of these days,” Cara assured Meg, “when you’re a famous designer and I’m a senior executive...maybe I’ll buy myself a man, too. After the new tires, of course.”

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