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eBook Category: Romance
eBook Description: Bah! Humbug! Jordan Christian has had it with holiday hoopla. The unwanted sympathy for her single status leads to unwanted would-be suitors as her relatives can't seem to stop fixing her up with Mr. Never In A Million Years. But this year, the wily bachelorette has a plan to outwit her family. With the aid of a singles' ad, Jordan plans to snare a stand-in fiance. In return, she'll stand by her man to fend off his relatives. For once the holiday season will be a time of peace on earth and goodwill towards man. Especially the man who will save her sanity! Jordan knows he's got to be out there, and he needs her help as badly as she needs his. Luke Foster dreads Christmas. The annual clan gathering always overflows with bothersome questions like "when are you going to settle down?" Jordan's ad is like a Christmas miracle. She'll fend off his family, and he'll shield her from hers. It's the perfect solution ... until Jordan and Luke meet and find more than they bargained for. Set in picturesque Burlington, Vermont on the shores of Lake Champlain, Yule Be Mine is an un-traditional holiday tale of madness and magic as two unmarried holdouts forget what they have against matrimony. All of a sudden, the reasons for making it a lasting partnership are piling up faster than the snow. And two frozen hearts are melting faster than a spring thaw.

eBook Publisher: Scheherazade Tales Romance E-Novels, Published: 2004
Fictionwise Release Date: November 2004

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [172 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [181 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [149 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [977 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [167 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [164 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [203 KB] , hiebook (KML) [398 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [218 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [137 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [172 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [215 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [227 KB]
Words: 50283
Reading time: 143-201 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

YULE BE MINE

by Charlene Teglia

Prologue

Seymour Walters was the last straw.

Jordan had put up with a lot from her brothers. She knew they meant well. She knew they loved her. She knew that deep down in their little misguided and deranged brains, they only wanted her to be happy.

But looking at Seymour's sober face, beneath a thatch of hair no artist could give style to, set off by glasses that were definitely, actually taped together over the nose, Jordan realized with a chill of horror that it was never going to end. They would never stop trying to fix her up with "the perfect man."

And their version of the perfect man was Jordan's version of perfect hell.

First of all, if Seymour had ever laughed in his life, she was certain he would have apologized immediately. She made it a firm rule that any man she dated had to laugh at her jokes. Then there was his appearance. Jordan eyed him in sober silence and was unable to even comment internally. It was that bad.

No, actually, it was worse--because if Jordan didn't do something, and fast, she'd be thrown together with Seymour or some other equally bad Disaster Date on every single hayride, skating party, dinner and dance of the holiday season.

She pictured herself seated by Seymour through an endless meal. Even in her imagination, she couldn't eat. A mortician just didn't contribute sparkling small talk to dinner.

And his compliments--she could hear them now. "You're looking lovely this evening. So lifelike. So natural."

You're a creative person, Jordan, she screamed at herself. Last year you wrote two hundred different ways to say "Happy Birthday." You need a plan. And make it good. Or Seymour will be by your side from Thanksgiving through New Year's Eve, and you'll have to kiss him.

The greeting card writer shivered at the very thought, and Seymour noticed.

"Got a chill?" He heaved a morose sigh. "Leona Watkins went like that. Pneumonia. That's how it starts. Before you know it, death comes knocking."

Death was already knocking, Jordan thought wildly. Death was closing in and choking the life out of her.

Well, not this year! It had to stop. And it was going to stop right now. Jordan was going to give her brothers exactly what they wanted, and gain a reprieve from the Grim Reaper.

She was going to get engaged to "the perfect man."

Single man! Are you haunted by the ghost of Christmas past--terrifying attempts at holiday matchmaking? Frightened by the ghost of Christmas future--more yuletide yahoos? Then what the dickens are you waiting for? Give us both a Christmas present. Single woman seeks phony fiancé for family functions; will pose as yours in return.

Jordan Christian reread her singles' ad with a critical eye. Was it short, snappy and to the point? Did it communicate her needs clearly, but with a humorous tone that would make it appealing to a decent human being?

She pushed her notepad back and dropped her pen on the lacquered surface of her antique roll top desk. Wanting some reassurance, she let her gaze wander over the wall. It held award certificates, the framed copy of her first check as a professional writer and an extremely flattering letter from an editor praising her skills. Jordan found the physical proof of her success and ability as a writer comforting whenever doubt crept in on a project.

This was a project she really couldn't afford to mess up. If this ad didn't snare a sane, single and at least semi-attractive male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, Jordan was going to be in a lot of trouble. She was going to be toasting the New Year with Seymour the Undertaker under the watchful eyes of her four older brothers.

It wasn't easy being the baby of the family. At twenty-six, she still wasn't free of fraternal harassment. True, her brothers--all considerably older--had shared in raising her after their parents were killed in a car accident, making them considerably more involved than most brothers. They'd been there for her through high school and sent her to college. They'd watched her graduate and taken her picture. They'd celebrated with her when she immediately got taken on as a writer for a greeting card company.

And they'd shoved countless stuffed shirts at her, every single year. Christmas seemed to bring out the worst in them. They couldn't seem to stand seeing her without a man at her side through all the traditional family events.

Jordan had tried reasoning with them. That didn't work. So she'd tried tears, tantrums and had even gone to the Bahamas one year to evade the matchmakers. She'd gotten sunburn and gained ten pounds eating all day on the cruise ship, and all for nothing, because they'd managed to get Mitchell onto the same ship and he'd followed her relentlessly.

Mitchell was a dentist, and she was fairly certain he'd been Gary's idea. Gary was the oldest brother and the most determined to settle his baby sister down with a respectable, secure husband.

But as annoying and self-centered--not to mention depressing--as Mitchell was, Seymour had him beat. He could drive a right-to-lifer to suicide. Especially if they had to listen to him talk through dinner.

Jordan shuddered again and reread her ad. Well, it wasn't perfect, but she didn't have much time. If she got it in today, it would run in the weekend edition of the Singles' Page, and with any kind of luck at all, she'd get some answers the following week.

It stood to reason that somewhere some man was enduring the same difficulties she was, and all because he just hadn't met the right person yet. So they'd help each other out. It was a perfect plan. After the New Year, they'd simply drift apart and eventually end their mock "engagement."

Jordan bounced to her feet and stretched, rolling her neck and shoulders to loosen the kinks produced by hunching over her desk. Maybe she should have requested a man who liked to give massages.

No, she couldn't be that picky. She wasn't shopping for a real fiancé, just a good fake to fool her brothers with. As long as he didn't tape his eyewear together or talk about dentures, she'd take him.

She ruffled her short blond spiky hair and picked up her ad. She'd already rented an anonymous postal box for replies. Now all she had to do was drop off her copy and pay for her ad to run.

And sincerely hope for a good man. A good "single man".

"Luke, I want you to meet Candy," his sister Wendy gushed. She shoved the saccharine pink fluff-ball of ruffles towards Luke. He knew there had to be an eligible female in there somewhere. Why else would Wendy push her on him?

The ruffles spoke in a sickening, simpering sweet voice. "I'm so pleased to meet you. I've heard so much about you." Then she definitely--distinctly--tittered.

"Have you?" Luke Foster's bland, merely rhetorical question was more a statement, neatly providing a response to Cotton Candy's verbal overture without encouraging further communication.

Luke glared at his oldest sister Wendy, but she didn't seem to notice--probably because, having done her "duty", she'd artfully retreated and was now busily occupied serving canapes to another guest.

These endless excuses to eat and drink and shove unwanted women at him that went on every year from November to January--he hated them. Wendy's little pre-holiday cocktail party was only the beginning. The Foster clan included two more siblings, parents, uncles, cousins and all their spouses and offspring, and they celebrated the holidays with a vengeance.

And all those relatives couldn't bear to see their Luke peacefully alone, peacefully single. They suffered some sort of genetic compulsion to match up and marry off every member of the family.

Luke eyed the pink ruffles in dread. It was already starting. He was a patient man, actually. An easy-going, even-tempered man. But even he could be pushed too far.

He stared, steadily and silently, down at the pink ruffled confection with chilling disinterest. Luke squelched the chiding sound of his mother's voice in his head that urged him to be a gentleman in any situation. Damned if he'd encourage this unwelcome piece of fluff. Cotton Candy was Wendy's guest. Let Wendy entertain her.

The ruffles twitched, twittered, and then seemed to wilt under his stolid indifference that bordered on the thin line of rudeness. A shrill sound emerged from the frothy dress. She squeaked out, "N-n-nice to meet you, I have to go," and pulled back.

Luke didn't even nod. His eyes silently encouraged her to do so, and quickly. Candy let out a faint sound of mingled offense and fright and melted into the crowd.

Luke smiled, a smile of triumph and satisfaction which transformed his rough features into a warm, approachable face and lit his cold blue eyes with humor. He went from looking like a man to avoid in a dark, lonely place to looking like a man to seek out a dark, lonely place with.

Luke Foster didn't have anything resembling classical features or Hollywood handsomeness. But he did have a rough, rugged appeal and chiseled muscles that declared him to be a man with a capital M. He'd found that the intimidating edge of danger he could affect at will produced results in the sometimes rough world of business.

It was an illusion, actually. He was gentle by nature. But he had the face and build of a born fighter; and that, combined with his height and an air of reserve as a natural result of his quiet, reflective personality, added to the illusion of watchful readiness for trouble and the ability to handle any that was foolish enough to turn up. Luke was too prosaic not to use whatever natural advantages he had. His successful consulting business spoke for the wisdom of not fighting nature.

Wendy frowned at him and Luke realized that she was going to come over and demand that he apologize to Cotton Candy.

A wise man knew when to retreat.

He blended into the crowd and made his way towards the door and freedom with a sense of desperation that was sheathed in outward calm and confidence. In truth, he knew he was in over his head. Every year the matchmaking went on, and every year it grew more insistent and more unpleasant.

His family simply failed to understand that he had other concerns, other priorities. It had taken time to gain the experience to start his own business, and more years to firmly establish it. That kind of commitment meant long hours and short weekends and didn't leave the time, the energy or even the inclination to pursue a serious relationship. In time, he intended to select a suitable wife. But there was no hurry.

"Leaving already? Heading back to the office?"

The question made Luke pause. He recognized that voice.

"It's what I would have been doing, too, twenty years ago," the voice continued.

"Jake Marlow," said Luke, turning around. If it hadn't been for the voice, he wouldn't have recognized his old mentor.

"Don't bother to tell me how I look," Jake said. "I know how I look. I'm old, I'm tired, and I'm scheduled for another triple bypass."

"I didn't know you had heart problems."

"Heart problems." Jake gave a wheezing laugh that held no trace of amusement. "You could say that. Let this be a warning to you, Luke. I put my heart into my business. Turns out it was a bad investment. You might think there's plenty of time for a personal life later, but later might turn out to be too late."

The words, combined with the sight of what had become of the man who'd taught Luke everything he knew about succeeding in business, were distinctly unsettling.

Jake shook his head and waved him on. "Go on. Go back to your business--but if I were you, I'd go find a life instead. And somebody to live it with. It isn't too late for you. Yet."

Even old Bottom Line Jake Marlow had matchmaking on the brain? The holidays caused mass insanity. Yes. That was the only rational explanation.

Luke reached the door. Freedom and sanity lay just beyond. He shrugged on his heavy wool overcoat but instead of his office he headed towards a nearby cafe. He'd get some coffee in peace and quiet. Wash away the sugary taste that just looking at Cotton Candy had left in his mouth. With grim sarcasm, he pitied the man who ended up with that bit of fluff. He hoped it would be a dentist.

The college student waiting tables waved to him and told him to sit anywhere. Luke nodded brusquely, sat in a corner booth and asked for coffee. Somebody had left a newspaper on the table. Idly, Luke opened it and flipped through. It wasn't exactly a newspaper, he realized after a moment. It was a listing of singles ads.

Here it was--solid evidence that he wasn't the only person who hadn't succumbed to marriage mania. Thirty-two wasn't too old to be single. Some of the ads were from people in their forties and fifties who'd never been married. Luke felt quietly gratified by that fact.

He barely noticed when his coffee came. The ads were enthralling. Why hadn't he ever read them before? There was a big woman seeking big man for a whale of a good time. And Daisy seeking gardener with stamen-a.

Then something different caught his eye.

Single man! Are you haunted by the ghost of Christmas past--terrifying attempts at holiday matchmaking? Frightened by the ghost of Christmas future--more yuletide yahoos? Then what the dickens are you waiting for? Give us both a Christmas present. Single woman seeks phony fiancé for family functions; will pose as yours in return.

Whoever had left that newspaper lying at his booth had circled that one in red, Luke noticed. The words reverberated in his head as he stirred his coffee and sipped the dark brew. Sounded like some poor woman was enduring the same fate. He wondered what the male equivalent of Cotton Candy was like. Something must have pushed her over the edge to resort to an ad like that.

An intelligent woman, too. She knew Dickens, and probably not just from watching a Christmas movie. And she had a quirky sense of humor. She'd compared blind dates and surprise fix-ups to being haunted by phantoms.

That revealed something else about her, Luke realized. She didn't mind being a single woman. She didn't want a ring. She wanted a co-conspirator to weather the holiday madness.

Will pose as yours in return...

Luke thought about it, and the more he did, the more it intrigued him. If he'd had her with him tonight, for instance, Candy wouldn't have gotten within a mile of him. Wendy wouldn't be perusing her guest list right now looking for another candidate to foist on him. Luke imagined the forthcoming round of manic holiday events, and the inevitable parade of pink-ruffled piranhas.

He shuddered.

Then he pictured himself with a poised, intelligent companion. She'd impress his siblings, parents and assorted partner-pushers. She'd drive away not only the sniveling sweet types but also the militant equal-partner business types who only wanted to use a ring to further their careers or to get a foothold in his own company.

The mystery woman was intelligent enough to out-do the former and devious enough, from her blatant proposal to perpetrate fraud, to deal with the latter. Luke drank his coffee and pondered.

She intrigued him, whoever she was. He thought she would likely be able to handle the thankless task of fending off his family.

The waiter returned with a full coffee pot, and Luke caught his eye. "Do you have a pen and some paper I could borrow?"

The waiter looked at the singles ads and smirked knowingly. "Certainly." He left a pad and pen for Luke after refilling his coffee cup.

Now....how to respond to something like that? It would take some thought. He wanted his message to stand out amongst the replies she'd get to her ad. If she didn't agree to be his fake fiancée, some other man would get a free ride through the holidays with no pressure to settle down. And Luke would be up against the wall--alone.

Okay. Presumably, she'd be impressed by a literary reply. Luke continued to think, wrote briefly, scratched out and rewrote. Finally satisfied, he read back over the result and nodded to himself. He tore the ad out and folded it with his answer. He'd mail it to her post office box tomorrow.

And hope that there really was a Santa Claus after all.

After waving to the postman out front, Jordan fitted the key into her box. She hoped it wasn't too soon to expect a response to her ad. Thanksgiving was only a few days away and the holiday madness was underway. She didn't have much time.

Fretting when the key stuck, she practically danced around the box until she had it open and peered inside hopefully. The slot bulged with envelopes.

Bonanza! She'd struck it big!

With a quick glance to make sure she wasn't noticed, Jordan scooped the mail into her oversized bag and zoomed back home.

The bag was upended on her desk and Jordan rummaged through the clutter of pens, lipsticks, business cards and other odds and ends for the all-important envelopes.

An hour later, as she reached the last letter, her enthusiasm had dimmed considerably. So much for attracting a decent human being. A man in the same boat. A man with a sense of humor. She'd attracted men who thought it was a clever hook and wanted to date her. Men who wanted to unwrap her for Christmas. Men who wanted to show her their Dickens.

Not one single reasonable rational reply in the whole batch.

She couldn't believe it. Even in the mail, nobody took her seriously.

Well, she might as well read the last one, she thought in disgust. What did she have to lose? Maybe this one could even spell. She pulled the single sheet of paper free of the envelope and started to read.

Her brows shot up. "Well, well," she murmured. "It seems we have a winner."

'T'was the month before Christmas and all through the house

Were relatives trying to find me a spouse.

I got talked half to death by sickly-sweet chatter

And fled for my life from her sugary patter.

Then what to my weary eyes should appear

But a singles ad asking for my help this year!

Together we'd fend off the brothers and sisters,

The dreadful mismatches of misses and misters.

Together we would escape our sad plight

And find Christmas Eve, for once, a good night.

The mystery respondent had signed "Single Man" to his spoof and enclosed his address, inviting an answer.

Amazing. She'd sifted through an awful lot of pebbles, but she'd struck gold at last. He could spell. He had a sense of humor. And he needed her as much as she needed him.

So as long as he wasn't a felon on parole, Jordan thought she just might have found the solution to her dilemma. Now she just had to find out a little more about him.

Maybe she should send him a survey, a questionnaire. The kind of thing that would reveal all sorts of little quirks. Like--did he prefer Larry or Moe? If he couldn't answer, he didn't like the Three Stooges.

Jordan pinned the letter from "Single Man" to her corkboard. The rest of the letters went directly into the round file--the wicker garbage basket. Her notebook ready, she chewed thoughtfully on the cap of a pen and debated possibilities.

For instance, did he like tactile experiences like using paper and pen or did he do everything on computer? The typed letter on a blank piece of regular paper told her very little. Or did that matter? She couldn't get off-track. She really needed to know if she could stand his company better than the dentist or the undertaker or any of the other past holiday horrors her brothers had come up with.

Did he have an ego the size of a mountain? Did he consider commercial artists like herself hacks or sell-outs? Did he have the ability to think on his feet and, most important, the ability to play a pretend role convincingly?

Her brothers knew her well enough to spot an obvious fake. He had to look enough like someone she'd actually consider marrying to make it work. So what would she consider marrying?

Jordan pondered that, to the pen cap's detriment.

A man who'd appreciate her creative abilities and personality. A man who found her little eccentricities amusing, instead of recommending a good therapist. A fun-loving, patient, sensitive, understanding man with a good sense of humor. A man who was successful enough not to mind her success. Sexy and devastatingly attractive. A man who could get along with her four impossible brothers.

In short, a man who didn't exist, except in her vivid imagination.

Fortunately Jordan was free to create her fiancé in her own dream image. Why not? If he could play a role, he could play the one she defined for him. Although, she conceded, it would be better if he were as close as possible to her fantasy man.

Now she just had the problem of trying to roughly determine how close her "Single Man" came to her specifications, and whether or not she could tolerate hours of his company through the holidays.

It took some time, and a great deal of thought, but Jordan got her reply finished and addressed to "Single Man." She'd drop it in the mail along with the new concepts for her greeting card company. Fortunately she had the sort of job that wouldn't cause any of her brothers to question her frequent trips to the post office or rabid interest in the mail. She did most of her work by mail, and occasionally via the fax function on her computer if it was urgent.

She might actually get away with it, Jordan thought in delight. She whirled around in a burst of sheer joy.

Randall caught her giddy arabesque as he came out of the kitchen wiping his hands. "Jordan, what are you doing?" he inquired.

She held her pose and smiled innocently at her second to oldest brother. "I have a new batch of cards ready to go and they're really good." Cheer radiated from her voice. "What are you doing here? I didn't even hear you come in."

"You didn't hear me because you were writing when I came in. I stood in your doorway and called, but you didn't answer, so I just put your dinner in the refrigerator." Randall gave her a faintly accusing look.

Had she missed a dinner appointment? She didn't remember having one, but she usually took turns eating with one of her brothers' families. Between the four of them, they kept her fed and also kept her from being "reclusive", as they called it.

Honestly. Just because a person liked to live alone. Jordan shook her head. There was no reasoning with her brothers. But they meant well and she loved them.

"Thanks!" She dropped her improvised joyful dance pose and skipped over to kiss him on the cheek. "You're a dear, and so is Teresa for sending you over to feed me. Did I forget to show up or something? Were you expecting me?"

"No, I told you we'd be going out tonight. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't skip a meal."

Randall's faintly reproving look censured her for having a sylphlike slenderness. The gray eyes and light hair that added to her otherworldly air made the rugged brothers feel like they had a fragile hold on someone who might slip out of their grasp at any time.

Jordan hugged him reassuringly. "Come on, you know I'm as healthy as a horse. Strong as an ox. I also eat like a linebacker. When do I ever miss a meal?"

He responded to her teasing with typical seriousness. Randall was a serious guy. But then he was a CPA, so what did she expect? "Last Thursday. You missed a meal last Thursday because you didn't show."

The literal reply made Jordan want to laugh again, but she resisted the impulse with an effort. He'd be hurt and he was too kind and considerate to deserve that. "You're right," she agreed solemnly. "I had a sudden attack of...of something." Jordan grasped at anything to explain her flight from Seymour the mortician. "Something that didn't agree with me. I couldn't eat."

Her shudder was entirely unfeigned. With Seymour, who could eat? Even a cast-iron constitution like hers had its limits.

"Listen, I have to drop these at the post office. I want them to go out first thing in the morning," Jordan said with deliberate cheerfulness. She figured if she suddenly turned up engaged, it would look a lot less suspicious if Randall remembered her being excited and sparkly-eyed over something. And she was. Just the prospect of putting one over on the bunch of matchmakers--along with the possibility of actually relaxing and enjoying the season--was enough to have her doing cartwheels. "Can I walk you to your car?"

He indicated for her to precede him and they walked outside together. "You won't forget next Sunday?" Randall insisted. Evidently she wasn't forgiven for not showing up on Thursday.

Jordan leaned companionably against her brother's side. "I won't forget," she assured him. "How could I forget dinner at your place with my favorite nephews?"

"You say that about all your nephews. And all your nieces, too," Randall pointed out. But he smiled, even if it was somewhat stiffly.

She could usually get a little smile out of him, Jordan thought in satisfaction. Unlike Gary, the oldest. He was a tough nut. Lawrence, the next in age, was probably born laughing. Then there was Theodore, the youngest of her brothers. He was fairly laid-back in contrast to the rest, and could usually be counted on to appreciate her antics.

He'd probably been the one to set her up with Seymour, now that she thought about it. Either Theodore or Lawrence. It was the sort of prank they'd pull. She really didn't think Randall was responsible for that one. Seymour would have given him the willies.

"They're all my favorites," Jordan answered his remark with a mischievous grin. "Give my love to your family, and I'll see you on Sunday." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him good-bye and waved as he drove away.

Then she broke her previous land speed record for getting to the post office. She was one step closer to peace on earth. She could even spare some good will towards "Single Man."

This year, with any luck at all, Christmas wasn't going to be a humbug.

Monday Luke was on pins and needles. It was too soon to expect a reply, he told himself. She probably hadn't even got his letter yet. He couldn't expect to hear from her before Wednesday at the earliest. But that didn't stop him from waiting impatiently for the mail and digging through it eagerly when it arrived.

Even though he'd told himself not to expect anything, the sudden disappointment when no reply appeared in the stack of business correspondence was surprisingly sharp. He was counting on her help, that was all. He wasn't obsessed with a woman he hadn't even met. Above all, the voice of Jake Marlow was not ringing in his head with dire warnings about leaving things too late.

He simply dreaded the coming onslaught of parties with the inevitable questions about his still being a bachelor and being seated next to women whose only potential suitability as a future mate consisted of their having been born with the proper chromosomes. Luke reflected grimly that even that could change if he stayed single much longer. He'd be fending off advances from men named Maurice or Gavin, who'd wink at him and encourage him to embrace his sexual identity.

Luke shuddered.

His family was more than capable of it, too, if they decided he'd never married because he wasn't interested in heterosexual monogamy. He hoped again that the mystery woman got his letter. He hoped she'd found it amusing. Witty. At least intriguing enough to warrant an answer.

He hoped she'd answer it. And soon.

By Wednesday morning, he wasn't even pretending to be working anymore. He'd stared at the same report for so long he should have had it memorized, yet he couldn't even concentrate on work, the one thing guaranteed to absorb his attention and divert his morbid thoughts.

When a knock interrupted his musings, his only thought was that Abby, his secretary, was bringing in his mail. Luke shot out of his chair and took a step towards the door.

It wasn't Abby.

Disappointment drove him to speak without thinking. "Oh. It's you."

Wendy raised a fair brow at his surly tone. "My, what a charming welcome! No wonder you get so many visitors. Dare I come in?"

Luke retreated to his desk and waved at the chair in front of it in a grudging, silent invitation.

"Expecting someone?" She arched an inquiring look at her brother and took in the unusual sight of the normally intense, focused, all-business man staring blankly at the report in front of him as if wondering where it had come from.

He looked up at her with the same unseeing expression. "What?"

She was suspicious, Luke realized. He was acting strangely. With an effort, he snapped his attention back to the present and pushed the mystery woman and Jake Marlow to the back of his mind.

"Yes," he agreed, since obviously it was the truth. Only he was expecting her to write, not appear in person. Besides, he figured this could work to his advantage. If he suddenly turned up engaged, he wanted Wendy to be able to remember his distraction. His family knew him too well to buy the charade without laying some groundwork.

Abby chose that moment to appear with his morning mail, and Luke shot out of his chair again.

"Expecting a letter from Ed McMahon?" Abby teased.

He gave her a disgruntled look and all but snatched the mail from her. "Thank you, Abby. I am expecting an important letter."

"That would be the lavender envelope with all the perfume on it..."

That startled him. "Perfume?" It had to be her. He smiled and the abrupt transformation didn't go unnoticed by either woman. They exchanged thoughtful glances as he turned back to his desk, and both eagerly waited for an explanation. "Uh...thanks, Abby...that will be all."

Abby's smile looked a bit disappointed, but she acquiesced and left his office. No such luck with Wendy, who just crossed her legs and settled back comfortably. A sister's special prerogative, he supposed.

Luke dropped the stack and sorted through until he found the envelope that was obviously not business. It clearly had no purpose but pleasure, from the feminine stationary to the musky fragrance it exuded. Fine handwriting graced the outside. She'd written by hand. Personally. That had to be a good sign.

Encouraged, Luke swiftly tucked the envelope inside the pocket of his discreet gray suit and squared his shoulders to face Wendy's curiosity. He planted both hands on the cherry desk, leaned forward and asked with studied casualness, "Is there something I can do for you?"

Wendy smiled winningly back at him. "Who's that from?"

He put on his coldest business persona and stared back. "Who is what from?" His tone dared her to question him further.

Unfortunately, Wendy was fond of dares. The chic blonde leaned back in her seat and swung one foot idly. "The letter," she drawled. "The perfumed one. The one you're keeping so romantically over your heart."

Luke dealt with that the only way he could think of. He ignored it. He repeated, "Is there something I can do for you?"

Wendy smiled triumphantly. "As a matter of fact, there is. You can bring her along Friday."

"Friday?" Luke frowned and tried to remember what was happening Friday. He hoped she didn't mean this coming Friday. That was a little soon. He'd only just heard from his mysterious single woman. He needed time.

"Next Friday," Wendy expounded, but Luke was still in the dark. "You remember--a little thing at Aaron's. Your only brother. The day after Thanksgiving."

"Right," Luke agreed, although he didn't remember any such thing. There were always far too many of these "little things" scheduled from November to January. He had high hopes that he and his fabulous fake fiancée could manage to avoid several of them, using each other's families as an excuse.

A truly cheerful thought.

Luke managed to weather the rest of the low-level debriefing before Wendy finally accepted that she wasn't going to get anything more out of him and mercifully left. Alone at last, he heaved a sigh of relief and pulled out his letter.

Single Man:

Poetry? I'm impressed! As my number-one contender for the position of temporary fiancé, I'm sending you, absolutely free of obligation, the enclosed questionnaire. There is absolutely no cost to you (other than postage) and all answers will be held in strict confidence. Really. (Although I have to remind you that you're trusting a person who was desperate enough to place a singles ad in the first place.)

Please complete and return the questionnaire, and feel free to ask any questions of your own. Within reason. Although I reserve the right to plead the Fifth.

Question One: I'm unmarried because...

a. I hate women

b. I have no social graces whatsoever and bathe only as an annual ritual

c. I just got out on parole

d. I have a commitment issue. Also a dependency issue. Also a trust/intimacy issue.

e. I haven't yet met Ms. So Right I Can't Believe It. Or even Ms. Close Enough.

Question Two: I'm willing to lie to my family because... a. I hate them all and they deserve it

b. my neighbor's dog told me to

c. why not?

d. it sounds like fun e. I don't know of any other way to save my sanity and survive the holidays.

Question Three: I'm willing to spend my time filling out this ridiculous questionnaire because...

a. my therapist recommended that I stay busy, especially during the holiday season b. I don't have a job

c. I don't have a life d. I don't know

e. Single Woman, you fascinate me and I'd do a lot more than fill out a silly questionnaire for you

Question Four: What I really like to do for fun is... a. go bowling b. play the accordion

c. attend Star Trek conventions dressed as my favorite character

d. wax my car

e. shower single women with flowers and poetry

I'll bet you've noticed a distinct pattern here, haven't you? I eagerly await your reply.

Yours Most Untruly,

Single Woman

Luke smiled more than once reading her pert answers that revealed as much about her as she claimed to ask about him. The e's definitely had it, in this case. The obviously slanted responses disqualified the first four and left the last as her less than subtle preference.

She didn't like bowling, women haters or psychobabblers. She all but admitted to preferring bribery and flattery. Too bad her post office box wouldn't accommodate a floral delivery. Otherwise he could earn some extra points with her and speed up the process that way.

Thanksgiving was coming. And that "little thing" at his brother's. If he didn't have someone to fend off his family by then, Candy would start to look like a real candidate for Ms. Right.

There had to be a way to get through the letter-writing stage and meet her in person. Maybe, Luke mused, he should be as blatant in his preferences as she was. Maybe he should come right out and ask her to cut to the chase.

Single Woman:

I would have sent flowers, but the florist wouldn't deliver to a post office box. I don't talk to my neighbor's dog, hate my family, or use the wrong fork at dinner. I'm convinced I'm the right one for you, but how can I convince you only through anonymous letters?

Since you might have some real concerns about meeting me for the first time, I suggest that you choose the time and a public place you'd feel comfortable in. Also, I'm revealing my identity so you can investigate me for any criminal history I might potentially be hiding.

I'm Luke Foster, 32, never married. I own a consulting business called Solid Solutions. You may have heard of it. I need you because I have an extended family with an unwarranted and disturbing interest in seeing me paired off, and apparently anything female qualifies.

Make me your stand-in and I'll send you flowers every day. Meet me. The sooner the better. I'm waiting to hear from you.

Luke

His bold, slashing signature told Jordan that here was a man who left his mark. Luke Foster? The local financial expert featured in magazines and newspapers? The Luke Foster needed her?

Well, it just went to show that money didn't solve everything. He had family problems, too.

Jordan glanced back over the letter and grinned. She might have heard of his business? He did have a sense of humor. She'd have to live in a cave not to have heard of it. No matter what opinion her brothers held, she did not live in a cave.

Apparently, he was willing to resort to bribery to persuade her. He'd given her the advantage of retaining anonymity while he revealed himself, and of choosing the time and place if she even chose to meet him. Only a very confident man would give her the upper hand like that.

Or a very chivalrous one. Maybe her "Single Man" was the last rescuing knight in existence.

Whatever, he was certainly worth meeting. There were plenty of respectable cafes and coffee shops. Any one of those would have people there at all hours. As good a meeting place as any, Jordan figured.

She really didn't have anything to lose by showing up to check him out. He could hardly be worse than Seymour. And if, by some freak of chance, he was a total write-off, she wouldn't be any worse off for trying.

Her mind made up, Jordan glanced at the clock. She could get a reply to the post office by five, and there was a good chance he'd get it the next day. Saturday at the latest. So she should arrange to meet him on Sunday.

If nothing else, she'd have an excuse to escape from Randall's get-together in case her demented brothers had another surprise waiting for her.

Luke:

I suppose if we're engaged, I can't call you Mr. Foster, can I? I appreciate your willingness to meet me at my convenience. Meet me at the cafe on Battery Street, Sunday afternoon at four. You won't be able to miss me.

Jordan

"You won't be able to miss me."

Luke found himself wondering what she meant by that.

It sounded ominous....