Married by Morning
Shirley Jump

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my children, who have added a dimension of fun to my life that I never expected. Having them has taught me that it’s okay to completely humiliate yourself in a driveway basketball game and that the point of Scrabble isn’t to win or show off my vocabulary skills, but to share laughs and groans with the family.

I love you both, more and more every day. Every laugh, every smile and especially every hug is a treasure I hold dear to my heart.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

CARTER MATTHEWS screamed into the parking lot, road gravel spitting a wake behind him as he slid his red Lexus into a front space. The ads had said the car could go zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. They had lied.

Carter’s new toy could go zero to a hundred, making the Lexus worth every penny.

He slid out of the car, feeling a twinge of guilt that he’d blown off most of the workday to take the car out for a spin. Pearl, his assistant, had given him her famous evil eye as he’d darted out the door this morning, barely five minutes after striding through it. What Pearl didn’t understand was that TweedleDee Toys was undoubtedly better off when Carter wasn’t running the ship.

“Mr. Matthews! I’m glad I found you!”

He spun around. Mike, TweedleDee’s design intern, scrambled across the parking lot, trying to hold a bulky paper bag against his chest with one hand while keeping his glasses on his nose with the other. “I…well, we, had this brainstorm today and the guys wanted me to rush over to you.” He thrust the bag at Carter, then caught his breath. “Meet Cemetery Kitty. We think it’s going to revolutionize the stuffed animal industry.”

“Cemetery Kitty? As in another stuffed animal?” Carter tried to work some enthusiasm into his voice. This week, he’d given his toy designers a single task—to come up with something to wow the buyers at this fall’s Toy Convention. He’d expected a water blasting outdoor gun, a snazzy remote control car, anything but one more faux fur pet.

“Are you going to look at it now?” Mike’s entire body went frenetic with anticipation. He clasped and unclasped his hands, nodding at the bag. “You, ah, haven’t been in the office all that much, so I thought I’d track you down. If you like it, we can rush right into production.”

The stuffed toy would undoubtedly be one more in a string of failures, but he didn’t voice his reservations, not while he was still riding the high of driving his new car. He had no desire to ruin that by inserting the failing toy business into the mix.

“It’s been a long day. I’ll look at it later. But thanks.” He gave Mike a wave, then headed into his building.

The intern who had enthusiastically cleaned out the office supplies cupboard and color-coded the Post-it notes, remained undaunted and caught up with Carter. “Mr. Matthews?”

Carter turned around, at the same time tapping the car’s locking remote, waiting for the answering beep. “Yeah, Mike?”

“Uh, the guys are kinda concerned,” Mike said, clearly here as the sacrificial lamb for the employees. “You’re not at work a whole lot and well, with your uncle Harry gone and all, we, ah, kind of wanted some direction.”

Carter glanced at the Lexus. About the only thing he had experience directing was a fast car. And a few fast women. Every time he tried to manage the toy company, all he’d done was manage it further underground.

So he’d abandoned it today, just as he had last Wednesday to play golf, and the Tuesday before that for a rousing tennis match with his brother. Lately he’d been out of the office more than in. Considering Carter’s managerial abilities, it was a good thing all around if he stayed away.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to hire a manager. To admit failure.

Again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mike,” Carter said, because he didn’t have an answer to the whole direction thing. Hell, even Carter didn’t know which direction to head.

Mike hesitated a second longer, then pushed his glasses up his nose and said goodbye. He crossed the lot, shoulders hunched, steps heavy and measured and looked back, two, three times, then slipped into his battered ten-year-old green truck and left.

Carter let out a sigh, climbed the stairs to his apartment, let himself in, dropped his keys in the crystal dish by the door, then opened the bag.

Inside was a cat. Life-size, gray and white striped fur, looking reasonably realistic. Certainly not the blockbuster he’d been expecting, given Mike’s raving.

But pretty much par for the course at TweedleDee Toys.

He flicked the on/off switch. The furry thing rolled over, thrust its four paws into the air and let out a plaintive belching squeak. The cat shivered twice and went still.

“Just what a toy company needs,” Carter muttered. “A cat that plays dead.”

He tossed the play animal into a chair and crossed to his tidy, stainless steel kitchen. After this, he needed a stiff drink, a pretty woman and a long vacation, preferably on some desert island.

But his liquor cabinet was empty, his apartment devoid of anything female since Cecilia had walked out in a huff last Tuesday and his vocabulary had been missing the words “extended vacation” since he’d taken over the top spot at TweedleDee Toys.

A mistake of epic proportions.

He had no idea what his uncle Harry had been thinking when he’d written his will and left Carter in charge of a toy company. If anything, his twin brother Cade would have been a more logical choice. Cade, the organized one, the one who could take on a project and see it through to the finish line. He’d done that at their father’s law firm and now, after leaving there, was working with his wife, Melanie, building her Cuppa Life coffee shop franchise throughout the Midwest.

Unlike Carter, whose greatest accomplishment in life had been running Uncle Harry’s company into the ground.

Not to mention, disappointing his father. In his nearly forty years of life, Carter had managed to do only one thing well—perfect the art of being a disappointment.

He glanced around the apartment he’d moved into last month, to be closer to TweedleDee Toys and to escape the constant disapproval of his father back in Indianapolis. The space was neat, tidy and perfect—and totally devoid of personality. It didn’t welcome or invite him in at the end of the day. The apartment simply existed, like something out of a catalog.

The Pier 1 furniture, the pale beige walls, all chosen by a decorator because Carter hadn’t had the time or inclination. A weekly maid service polished the glass coffee table and set it at a right angle with the lines in the area rug.

Every space he’d ever lived in had been like this. Cold, impersonal and cared for by someone else. Just as he had been most of his life. He’d never settled down, never found his calling, and hadn’t wanted to until the reading of Uncle Harry’s will.

Six months ago, Uncle Harry’s boat, The Jokester, had been found drifting at sea somewhere in the Atlantic. The Coast Guard had searched, then finally declared him dead two months ago, an announcement that seemed to make Carter’s father, Jonathon, Harry’s only brother, even more withdrawn and colder than usual.

At the reading of the will, Carter had looked around at his family—Cade and his father—and realized each of them had a purpose. Cade had Melanie, the franchise. Jonathon had the law practice. They seemed to be holding a card that Carter had never seen.

And then, when the stunning news that Uncle Harry had left TweedleDee Toys to Carter came out, the crazy thought that Carter could be something had popped up. The attorney had handed over the ownership of TweedleDee Toys and Carter’s father had let out a snort of derision. “You’ll be filing bankruptcy in a month. That place was a mess when my brother ran it and it’s undoubtedly only gotten worse in his absence.”

A thousand times before his father had predicted Carter’s failure—with pinpoint accuracy. For some reason, though, that day the comment had gotten Carter’s dander up. “Never,” Carter said to his father. “I can turn that company around.”

His father had laughed, then shook his head. “Face it, Carter. You’re not made of CEO material.”

The only thing that had kept Carter from throwing in the towel in the last two months was the knowledge that he would once again prove his father right. And if there was one thing Carter was tired of doing, it was that.

Their father was a perfectionist. Every detail of his life was organized and filed, structured and meticulous. He expected nothing less of his sons. Cade, who had followed him into the family law practice, had measured up to that impossible standard while Carter had continually fell at least a mile short.

Carter shrugged off the thoughts, then crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge, found a few sips of red wine left in a bottle shoved behind the expired carton of milk and poured the alcohol into a glass. “Cheers,” he said, hoisting the drink toward the stiff furball in his armchair. “I think you’ve got the better end of the deal, my petrified friend.”

He had just tipped the glass into his mouth when someone started banging at his door. Nosy Mrs. Beedleman and her binoculars, he was sure, had seen him and Cemetery Kitty through her courtyard window. And, as Mrs. Beedleman was wont to do, had assumed the worst about him and called the authorities.

Again.

Carter sighed, placed the glass on the counter and opened his apartment door.

“Let me guess,” he said to the slim brunette in his hall. She wore a funky pair of dark purple glasses that turned up at the corners, in that popular sixties style. Tall, thin, she wore her brown hair in an angle cut bob that set off a graceful neck. But the suit she had on was all business and Carter knew better than to flirt with a government employee. “You’re from the ASPCA and you’re here to write me up on charges of animal cruelty, right?”

“No. I—”

“The thing is stuffed. Tomorrow, I’m firing the guys who invented it. So go on back to the office or wherever you came from because there’s no dead cat in my apartment. At least, not a real one.”

She blinked. “Dead cat?”

“I told you, it’s not real. It’s the Cemetery Kitty toy.”

She blanched. “Uh, I think I knocked on the wrong door. Thanks anyway.” The woman turned to leave.

She looked like someone he knew, but hell, so did half the city of Lawford. As a new CEO, he made more friends he didn’t need at city networking events and golf tourneys, then forgot their names as soon as he put on his coat.

Still, something was familiar about this woman. Not familiar in the kind of way that told him he’d dated her, though.

Had he?

How deplorable. He had dated so many women, he’d forgotten more than he remembered. Unlike Cade, who had found his true love in high school, married her after graduation and was still enjoying the fairy tale.

Carter was more of the big, bad wolf smart fathers warned their daughters about rather than the prince on the white horse.

The woman in his hallway had a long, delicate face with a slim nose and defined cheekbones, giving her a Grace Kelly kind of beauty. But unlike the screen legend, her hair was a medium brown, and the easy way it skipped over her jawline and neck seemed made for convertibles and lazy summer days. And her legs—well, hell, they were made for a lot of things he was pretty sure were illegal in Indiana.

Whoa. He needed a bigger drink.

Either way, hers was the first friendly face he’d seen all day. And here he was chasing her from his apartment, like a fool. “Wait.” She pivoted away from the elevator. “Can we start over?”

She paused a moment, then relented and returned to his doorway.

He ran a hand over his face. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’ve got an unmarketable stuffed cat sitting on my recliner and I’m out of wine. Let me try this again. I’m Carter Matthews, and you are?”

“Daphne Williams.”

Daphne. Didn’t ring any bells.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daphne.” He slipped on the smile that had won a number of women’s hearts—and broken a few, too. “What brings you by?”

“I have a message for you.”

“Now that’s intriguing.” Carter leaned against the door frame and sent a second glance running over her. “And what might that be?”

She smiled, any trace of friendliness gone. “Actually, a little hate mail.”

He thought of telling her where she could stick her hate mail, then reconsidered.

She was, after all, a pretty woman and he had wished for one a few minutes earlier. He had the drink, albeit a thimbleful a wine, and with the certain demise of TweedleDee Toys now that his designers had launched a goth theme for spring, he’d have that vacation he wanted—a permanent one.

Be careful what you wish for, Matthews. It might just come true in spades.

Yet again, he was proving his father’s adage that he was about as useful as snow in August. Carter hated when his father was right—and hated how easy it had become to be the kind of man who fell instead of rose to the occasion.

“Tell me who hates me now,” Carter said. Besides his entire staff, and himself, of course.

“Me.”

“You? Why?” Oh Lord, she must be an ex-girlfriend. Definitely a sign he was dating and drinking too much.

Daphne Williams parked a fist on her hip and glared at him. “You made me break up with my boyfriend for no good reason.”

“Are you insane? I don’t even know you.”

“No, but you do know a—” she reached in her pocket and pulled out a small card “—Cecilia, who sent you a breakup basket today.”

Oh, damn. That really did take the cake for his day.

“A breakup basket?” Not that he hadn’t been more or less expecting something similar from Cecilia, who had made it clear that his inability to commit was no way to conduct a relationship.

Cecilia had expected the usual Carter Matthews treatment—dinner at fancy restaurants, drinks in jazz bars, impromptu trips to a B& B, but when Carter had told her he needed to spend his time making a stab at this CEO instead of stealing away with her for weekend rendezvous and late nights on the dance floor, she’d thrown a fit.

“According to Cecilia,” Daphne went on, “you’re a no-good jerk and she doesn’t want to see your face ever again, even if you were—” for this, she looked down at the card for the exact wording “—the last cockroach left on earth.”

“Ouch.”

“And this, I believe, is yours, not mine.” She pivoted, picked up a massive black wicker basket he hadn’t noticed earlier and thrust the thing into his arms. Skulls and crossbones decorated the outside, along with words like “never again” and “make hate, not love”.

Inside the basket were all kinds of goodies. A voodoo doll with spiky dark hair that he suspected was supposed to be him. Stuffed and tortured with pins and red X’s marking the mortal wounds. A half-dozen dead, shriveled black roses, a copy of Men Who Are Jerks and The Women Who Dump Them, a can of dog food with a spoon taped to the side, and a pint-size bottle of Lester Jester’s Eau de Skunk.

“Guess she wanted to get her message across,” he said.

“You must be one heck of a boyfriend.”

“I’m actually a very nice guy.”

She arched a brow at him. Apparently it was too late to make a good first impression.

Carter glanced again at the voodoo doll and noticed the hat pins sticking out of its eyeballs. Granted, that didn’t speak well for him. “I don’t get it. Tell me how my breakup ruined your life.”

“This—” she pointed at the basket “—was delivered to me.”

“I’ll be sure to complain to the delivery company.”

“Too late. I already ended a perfectly good relationship because of this thing.”

“Did it breed in your living room? Or were you totally overcome by the fumes of Lester’s skunk aroma?”

“I thought it was from my boyfriend.” She glared at him as if every glitch in the universe was Carter’s fault. A few he’d lay claim to, but not this one. “So I broke up with him.”

He smirked. “A preemptive strike?”

She colored. Clearly Daphne Williams didn’t like having the tables turned on her. “Yes.”

“Didn’t you read the card?”

“I didn’t open the box until…after.”

He tried to bite back his laughter but gave up the effort. “You broke up with your boyfriend, thinking he was breaking up with you, and you hadn’t even opened the box?”

She parked her fists on her trim little hips. “I have had a very bad day.”

“Well, so have I.” He grinned. “But you just made me laugh, so it’s starting to improve.”

She gave him a glare. “I don’t find this funny.”

He raised the can of liver-flavored dog food in her direction. “I can’t believe you ruined a relationship over this.”

“It’s your fault.”

“It is not.”

“If you hadn’t been such a horrible boyfriend, Cecilia wouldn’t have sent you this and I wouldn’t have thought it was meant for me and ended things with Jerry.” She threw up her hands. “You have no idea how this throws a wrench into all my plans. I needed Jerry, and not just for a little dim sum on Friday nights.”

He shook his head, needing a second to follow her long-winded logic. He hadn’t had any dinner and the lack of sustenance had his brain firing in the wrong directions. “First off, I wasn’t a horrible boyfriend.” He thought a second. “Well, I wasn’t exactly a horrible boyfriend. Second, you breaking up with Jerry was your choice, not mine. So I don’t see why I owe you anything at all.”

“I truly don’t care what you think, Mr. Matthews. The way I see it, you owe me a favor. Two, in fact, because I lugged this thing all the way up to the fourth floor to deliver it to the right recipient.”

“I disagree. I say Jerry was just waiting for an excuse to break up. My basket happened to be handy. So there’s no favor required here at all.” He started to shut his door.

She blocked him with a dark blue two-inch heel. “That’s not true. I was a wonderful girlfriend.”

He gave her a sardonic grin. “If you were so wonderful, then why did he let you get away so easily?”

Carter Matthews looked at Daphne Williams’s furious, silent face and thought he’d never seen anything so pretty as a woman who didn’t have a ready retort. She stepped back, sputtering and steaming, but not a single word came out.

“Have a good day, Miss Williams,” he said, and shut his door.

Then he realized winning the battle didn’t seem quite so victorious, considering he was left alone with a faux dead cat and a basket full of hate messages.

And a few truths about himself that weren’t so fun to face.

Daphne stomped her way back to her apartment, considering various methods of torturing and killing Carter Matthews. She rejected drawing and quartering as too kind.

The man had the gall to make an analysis of her life when he was the one being sent a pin-stuffed voodoo doll? She’d been a darn good girlfriend to Jerry, even putting up with his endless obsession with Mortal Kombat, figuring the man had a dream and she should support him as he supported her.

Well, he didn’t exactly support her. Or understand what she did. Or listen to eighty percent of what she said, because he called her work as a creativity coach “way above his mental ability level.”

That part might have been true.

In the beginning, Daphne had found him distracted, and endearing. Then, in the last few weeks, his inattentiveness had become annoying.

Hurtful.

But he had been behind her idea of building a creativity center for children. It was the one thing that drove Daphne, fueled her desire to create all that she had never had as a child. A center like that could be a place of mental freedom, allowing kids to open their imaginations to the world.

To have fun, to create. And maybe, to feel like their ideas, their creations, were welcomed.

Jerry, the indulged only child of wealthy parents, had pledged to give her the start-up funds, then continue his support through the family foundation. Groundbreaking was scheduled to happen in two weeks—

Or had been anyway.

She’d had her funding and a comfortable relationship that demanded nearly nothing of her, until she’d made that rash—

Preemptive strike.

Whatever. She refused to use Carter Matthews’s words, even if her mind might betray her.

Her doorbell rang and Daphne crossed to it, half hoping Jerry would be there, ball cap in hand, calling the whole thing a silly mix-up. And half hoping he wasn’t.

Maybe the Breakup Basket had been a sign—or an open door—to force Daphne to change her life. To do more than go to work and come home to an empty apartment and an empty heart.

She shook off the thought as she opened the door. All she needed was a minute to recoup and get her plans back on track.

“How was Reno?” Kim, her best friend from kindergarten on up, stood on the other side of the door, a steaming bag from Garden Palace Chinese in one hand and a bottle of Jose Cuervo ready-mixed margaritas in the other.

There were many reasons why Kim was her best friend. And she was holding two of them.

Daphne opened the door wider, waving Kim in and relieving her of her burden. “The creativity convention in Reno was fine. It was the trip home that stunk. My direct flight was delayed—twice—then forced to land in Sioux City when the pilot’s appendix burst. They lost my luggage somewhere over the continental United States, I lost my lunch in the turbo-jet’s bathroom during ungodly turbulence and then finally lost my car.”

“Your car?”

Daphne nodded. “I forgot where I parked it in the Indianapolis lot. Even the guy who ran the lot couldn’t find it. So he gave me a phone number and told me to call the manager after nine tomorrow.”

“Wow, talk about a bad day.”

“I came home to worse.” Daphne sighed, grabbing some dishes, then sinking into a chair at her kitchen table and telling Kim about the basket, her mistaken call to Jerry, and the mix-up with Carter Matthews. “That man is an evil monster, Kim. We should hang a warning poster about him outside the building.”

Kim laughed, her blond ponytail swinging and her bright green eyes dancing as she did. “Aw, he’s not that bad. He’s the guy who just moved into 4-B right?” Daphne nodded. “The women around here have been buzzing about our new neighbor and trying to outdo each other to snag one of the last bachelors standing.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you read the paper? He’s a frequent flyer in Gloria’s Gossip and Gab column. You know, one of those moderately wealthy, handsome guys who think marriage is for wimps. If that’s what evil monsters look like, sign me up for the movie.”

Daphne thought of Carter Matthews’s dark brown hair, the way the waves were displaced when he ran his fingers through it, leaving him looking like he just tumbled out of bed. His eyes, deep and blue, the kind most women fantasized about. Most women, though. Not her. And not Cecilia anymore, either, apparently. “Looks can’t make up for bad personality.”

“But they sure help.” Kim winked. “So, what are you going to do about Jerry?”

Daphne sighed. “Honestly, I’m relieved. Jerry wasn’t exactly Prince Charming.”

“Then why did you stay with him for five months?”

She shrugged. “I guess I thought he had all the qualities I wanted, or maybe did, somewhere in there. He was like a houseplant—a little time and some sunlight and he’d grow into what I needed.”

Kim laughed. “That man needed way more than a little fertilizer.”

“You’re right.” Daphne poured them each a margarita, then took a couple sips of her own before going on. The tequila hit her brain fast, skipping right past her empty stomach. “He was just so supportive of the creativity center, I thought—”

“You could turn ground chuck into sirloin?”

Daphne laughed. “I’ll never tell Carter Matthews this, but he did me a favor. It was time to break up with Jerry. I just wish the creativity center didn’t have to be part of it, too.”

“You don’t think he’ll look past this and still put his money into it, out of a sense of civic duty or something?”

“Nope. He made that really clear.” Daphne dished up some Chinese food for each of them, then toyed with a fortune cookie. “Do you know what I really want, Kim?”

“Besides hitting the lottery?”

“A man who cares about me. About what’s important to me. Someone who…” She paused a minute. “I don’t know, fills in the gaps.”

“Are we replaying the dialogue from a Tom Cruise movie?”

Daphne laughed again. “No. I guess it’s more that I want to have fun, but I never seem to do it. I go to work, I come home and I live the same day three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

“Something you’ve been doing for a long time,” Kim said with the soft tones of a longtime friend.

“Yeah.” Daphne shook off the thoughts. “Anyway, I’ve just had a heck of a day. Makes me all melancholy. I think once I find a new supporter for the creativity center, I’ll feel better.”

Kim’s hand covered hers. “Don’t worry, Ducky, you’ll think of something,” she said, lapsing into Daphne’s childhood nickname. When she’d been a child, it had started out as the second half of Daffy Duck, a tease from kids who paired her first name with the cartoon character. As she’d gotten older, the Ducky part had stuck, because, as Kim said, Daphne had this uncanny ability to bounce back from anything and always ride above a disaster. She’d turned companies around with her creativity training and usually managed to keep a sunny perspective on life.

Until Carter Matthews had ruined everything.

Now the duck was starting to sink. Well, she wasn’t going under without taking someone else along for a well-deserved drowning, too.

CHAPTER TWO

ON WEDNESDAY morning, Carter had resolved to make things better, to once again try on that CEO hat. Maybe even take a step forward from yesterday’s disaster.

He hadn’t. If anything, he’d made things worse.

Before he’d left his apartment, his best toy designer had called, irate that Carter had rejected Cemetery Kitty. The toy designer had pitched a tantrum of epic proportions, saying he was quitting and in the process, gave Carter an angry, rambling speech about working with idiots and a corporate culture worthy of sewer workers.

That had stung. Sewer workers were probably more creative than his team, damn it. At least they unplugged problems, instead of creating them.

The call had put him behind schedule, and if there was one thing Carter didn’t want, it was a disruption in his schedule. His new, as of today, highly responsible schedule.

He was going to make this thing work—even if it took getting to the office at the crack of dawn and staying till ten—p.m., instead of his usual ten a.m. quitting time.

This morning, he’d hoped to be in the parking garage at seven-nineteen in the morning, in his office by seven-thirty. He glanced at his watch. Eight-oh-seven.

Great. Just what he needed. To be late and one toy designer short.

This CEO business had turned out to be far more time consuming than Carter had expected. It wasn’t about the missed golf games, the canceled dates, or his forgetfulness to restock his fridge. It was the way the business seemed to consume his every thought, haunting him even when he wasn’t there. Now he understood why his twin brother’s work life had nearly cost him his marriage.

Cade had seen the light, however, and exited the law work he hated in favor of supporting Melanie’s business. Now Cade was home with Melanie every night, rekindling the flame that had nearly gone out in their marriage.

Somewhere along the way, Carter had gotten the idea that he could prove himself as a responsible person, too. Considering how TweedleDee Toys was going, all he was proving was his ability to fail.

He’d avoided the office all these weeks because of the certain knowledge that despite his best intentions, he didn’t have what it took to rescue the company. Every attempt he made to improve—reduce the bottom line, increase production, shore up morale—had been met with resistance by employees too used to being on their own—

And far too familiar with Carter’s indulgent past.

Carter pushed the thoughts away and stepped out of the building and into the bright, warm sunshine. Daphne Williams stood in the parking lot, her keys in one hand, cell phone in the other, and an exasperated expression on her face. “What do you mean, you towed it? I didn’t see a No Parking sign when I left it in the long-term lot.” A pause. “That wasn’t the long-term lot? Since when?” Another pause. “If you’re going to completely reconfigure the airport parking lot, you could at least put up a sign. Mail out a flyer. Let people know so they don’t—” She let out a huff at being interrupted. “Of course. I’ll be sure to fill out the comment card on my next visit to the airport. You can count on that.” Then she clicked the phone shut and let out a half-scream/half-groan of frustration.

“Having a good day?” he asked, teasing her. Because he couldn’t resist and because, hell, he was already late.

She wheeled on him. “If you must ask, and I can tell by the glint in your eyes that you must, no, I’m not.” Her voice broke on the last words and for a moment, he felt awful. “I have to be at a meeting in twenty minutes and my car isn’t where it’s supposed to be, and the place that towed it isn’t open until ten.” She drew in a breath, seemed to steady herself, then her face brightened. “Well, I always did enjoy the adventure of a cab ride before breakfast.” Daphne flipped out her phone and started to scroll through the programmed numbers, muttering to herself as she did. “What was the name of that taxi company?”

Guilt came in many forms, Carter realized. Some of them brunette and slim and with a crushed, vulnerable look in wide chocolate eyes. “Where’s your meeting?”

“Seventh and Vine.”

“My office is on Eighth. Let me give you a ride.”

She glanced up from the phone. “Why?”

“It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

“Well, Mr. Matthews, last I checked, you weren’t feeling too neighborly toward me. If I remember right, you called me insane and shut your door in my face.”

“Not one of my finer moments.” Heck, he hadn’t had many of those at all. But today, Carter Matthews was turning over a new leaf.

Again.

She ran a hand through her hair, displacing the brunette tendrils. They settled around her neck with little flips at the ends. On another woman, he might have found that attractive.

Hell, who was he kidding? He did find it attractive, especially on Daphne Williams. With the way she had her hips parked to one side and her wide brown eyes giving him that perpetual look of frustration, he knew he got to her, too.

Granted, probably not in the same gut-stirring, fireigniting, hormone-lighting manner, but at least she wasn’t immune to his charms.

Daphne sighed. “Yesterday wasn’t one of my finer moments, either,” she said. “And I would appreciate the ride. Besides, you owe me.”

“I do at that,” he said, in a voice several octaves deeper than he’d intended. He cleared his throat, ridding it of the damnable frog inside, and pressed on the long metal handle of the glass door that led to the parking garage, holding it open for her to pass through.

And wondering if he’d just made a huge mistake.

When Daphne had agreed to ride with Carter Matthews, she hadn’t thought about the consequences of squeezing into his little red two-door sports car. It was a hardtop convertible, exactly what she’d expected from Indiana’s most notorious bachelor.

But what was worse about the Lexus was its size. The car had all the room of a takeout box and made her overwhelmingly more aware of what Kim had called his more attractive assets.

Okay, he was cute. Another woman might like the way his hair waved at the top, one lock falling down on his forehead from time to time. Another woman might like the deep dark blue of his eyes, the way they seemed to reflect everything he looked at, especially her own image, as if he were a human mirror.

And especially the way he set her off-kilter—the one feeling Daphne had done a darn good job of avoiding.

Until Carter Matthews came along.

“I know, the car’s a stereotype,” he said, reading her mind as he put the powerful vehicle into gear. A growl erupted from the engine, as if the Lexus wanted to show Daphne a little speed.

“It does scream bachelor,” she replied. “And from what the news has said about you, you’re the kind of guy who’s only capable of an intimate relationship with your steering wheel.”

He laughed at that. “Gloria does get a few good lines in her gossip column from time to time. The woman can turn a phrase, even if her observations are a bit…skewed.” Carter took a left on Prince Street, causing Daphne to sway a little toward his side. Her arm brushed against his, and she jerked it back. “Was the all-perfect, now-departed-from-your-life Jerry a car nut?”

Daphne laughed. “Definitely not. Jerry didn’t even like to drive. He preferred to let me be behind the wheel.”

“Whoa. What a man.”

Daphne let out a chuff. She refused to give Carter the satisfaction of knowing she was happy Jerry was out of her life. “You don’t have to drive the girl around to be a man.”

“Whatever happened to chivalry? Taking care of your woman and all that?” He braked for a stoplight, drumming his fingers on the top of the leather-wrapped steering wheel, clearly annoyed by the wait. His dark blue suit jacket strained against his shoulders.

“For your information, I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Oh. You’re one of those women.”

“What do you mean, one of those women?”

“The kind who says she doesn’t need a man when all she really needs is to meet the right man.”

Daphne shook her head. “I should have expected a line like that out of someone like you.”

“I see my reputation has preceded me once again.” He tossed her a grin, then returned his attention to the road. “Just don’t believe everything you read.” A sliver of something vulnerable slipped in between his words, but disappeared just as quickly.

She must have imagined it, Daphne decided.

This was exactly why she’d slipped into that rut with Jerry. To avoid men who pushed her buttons, who drove her crazy. An unpredictable, frustrating man like Carter Matthews should come with a Do Not Disturb sign.

Especially when that lock of hair fell down across his forehead again and everything within her itched to brush it back. It had to be the car. Something about a convertible made her want to do crazy things.

Things that pulled her focus away from what was important—work, not relationships. Work provided the steady concrete base Daphne needed in her life. People might let her down, but her job never did.

The light changed to green. The sound of the accelerator giving the car more gas sounded suspiciously like Carter saying, “Uh-huh.”

“So, what do you do?” Daphne asked, not to get to know Carter better, but only to change the subject toward anything other than male driving habits and how they could be relationship portents.

“When I’m not starring in the pages of the paper?”

She nodded.

“I own TweedleDee Toys.” He let out a heavy sigh and slowed as they approached orange signs denoting an ongoing construction project, flicking a glance at his watch as he did. She noticed the interior of his car was as neat as his apartment had been. Not a speck of dust or so much as a lone French fry littered any of the surfaces. New car smell hung sweet and heavy in the air. “Or at least I do today. The way things have been going, I might not tomorrow.”

She shouldn’t ask. She shouldn’t care. But the little part of her that always did her job did care. And felt that surge of need to help.

This time, it was a masochistic urge, she thought as Carter circumvented some roadwork by zipping down Central and back up Washington to Third. It had to have been the lines in his face, the ones that seemed to say he’d been having a hell of a last few weeks. “What do you mean, you might not have the company anymore soon?”

“I think you’ve had enough bad news for a couple days. I won’t burden you with mine.” He turned and grinned again, this time a softer, easier, more friendly smile.

In some countries it might even be considered cute.

The masochistic urge to help him multiplied tenfold. Okay, he had a nice smile. Too bad he was an arrogant jerk who drove women away and ruined other people’s love lives.

They ran into the same construction again at the end of Third Street. She saw him check his watch a second time, clearly not happy with the delay.

They sat there, idling in stopped traffic. She glanced at Carter and softened. Maybe her heart was bleeding a little this morning. Maybe she was overtired, or underfed. Either way, she sat there and began to think a guy with a smile like that couldn’t be all bad. Could he?

“I’m a corporate creativity coach,” she said. From all that she’d read about Carter Matthews in the local papers, he was new to the CEO thing and could likely use a little help.

Okay, maybe a lot.

“Are you the one who made toilet paper fun?”

She laughed. “That’s probably not the best job on my résumé—”

“But it is the cleanest.” He gave her a teasing grin. “What a small world. Your company has been on my To Do list for weeks. I even looked it up on the Internet, which is why you looked so familiar last night. Your firm came highly recommended by my brother.”

Heat rose in her cheeks at the unexpected praise. “Thanks. We’ve had some nice success in the last couple of years.”

He gestured toward the stopped cars in front of them. “If I had to be stuck in traffic with anyone, I’m glad it’s you. Creativity is the one thing my company—and my employees—seem to be lacking.”

“But you’re a toy company. Isn’t fun supposed to be part of your company motto?”

He inched the car forward. “You might want to tell my staff that, considering our latest creation was Cemetery Kitty. ‘Come watch her roll over and play dead.’”

“Oh, my.” Daphne put a hand over her mouth, holding back a laugh. “That’s bad. That’s really bad.”

“I can practically hear the whoosh of my corporate profits going down the white porcelain river ride.”

“What you need is a little creativity boost for your team.”

“What I need is a miracle,” he muttered, and once again the shade in his eyes drew back enough for her to see he was worried.

Another wave of sympathy ran through Daphne. She understood what that was like. In the early days at Creativity Masters, she had faced those uphill battles alone because she hadn’t been able to afford help. She’d had to prove she could make a living at something as “silly” as creativity. And she had, in spades.

A construction worker in an orange vest waved them forward. Carter, following the cars before him, wove his way between the bright neon cones and warning signs. The Lexus bumped a little over the rough road, jostling Daphne closer to Carter, then away.

A charge of awareness raced through her body. Fast, hard and very, very hot. The paper had proclaimed Carter the sexiest man in Indiana last year.

From where she sat, Daphne thought the reporter could have easily added a few states to that title. Maybe a whole continent.

Daphne drew in a breath, calming the charge of attraction. Playboys like him came with charisma included. She’d be smart to remember that.

They were nearly at the end of the trip. Daphne could easily keep her mouth shut now and let Carter go on his way. He had, after all, been at the root of the demise of her creativity center funding.

But something about the tense set of his shoulders, the lines in his forehead and the genuine worry in his eyes when he talked about his company tugged at her heartstrings.

He pulled up in front of the building that housed her office and parked the car. On the first floor, the bright green awning of Frankie’s Delicatessen had already been unfurled for the day. The scent of Frankie’s famous pot roast baking in preparation for the day’s orders of roast beef sandwiches drifted through the car windows. “Here we are.”

Daphne reached for the door handle. “Thanks.”

“Wait,” Carter said, reaching for her, his touch warm on her arm. He pivoted in his seat, his dark blue eyes studying hers. His tie, she noticed, was as neatly done as the rest of him. Not a Windsor out of place. “I’d like to hire you. As a way to make up for the whole basket thing, and—” he gave her the grin that the paper had once said should have been trademarked “—you can pull off the miracle I seem to have missed.”

“You mean you want me to rescue your company while you sit by and watch?”

“Hell no,” Carter chuckled. “I’ll be on the golf course. Just send me the bill.”

She let out a gust of frustration. “I don’t think so.” The door opened beneath her touch and a muttered, “Typical.”

He’d blown it. He’d been Carter Matthews, the guy with the smile and the woman on his arm, not Carter Matthews, serious business owner in serious trouble. “Daphne, listen—”

She pivoted back. “Thanks for the ride. Why don’t we just call it even? You can go back to your fun and games and I’ll go back to my life.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t need the help,” he said, but he was sure by the look in her eyes that she was going to refuse him again.

“Uh-huh. Okay, then tell me. What’s the current situation?” Daphne asked, hands on her hips. “How’s production going? What’s your profit margin? Your return customer ratio?”

“I’m not as familiar with production and…all that,” he said. “I, ah, don’t spend every day at the office.”

She arched a brow. “How often are you in the office?”

Carter let out a little cough. “Twice a week.” He paused. “In the mornings.”

“Where are you when you aren’t at work?”

“Networking,” he said.

She looked at him, read his face as easily as a newspaper, then let out a snort. “You’re golfing, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I make very valuable business connections on the fairway.”

“No wonder your company is failing, Mr. Matthews. To get a good pulse on your company, you really need to be there.”

“I am…planning to,” Carter added after a second. “Starting today.”

“I can’t help you.” She threw up her hands. “I work with CEOs every day who are committed to turning their companies around. I don’t want to work with someone who is just playing CEO.”

“Is that how you see me?” he asked. “The stupid playboy who can’t handle anything more complicated than taking down a woman’s phone number?”

“Of course not. You can also handle a sports car. There’s two great skills in life.”

Her sarcasm ran through him like a knife. She, like most everyone else in his life, saw Carter as nothing more than his reputation.

Yet, he knew, just based on what he’d heard about Daphne, that she could help him turn around TweedleDee Toys. But as he took in Daphne Williams’s heart-shaped face, he wondered if she might be a bit of a complication. Too pretty by half and far too distracting.

Regardless of how she looked or how she might distract him, TweedleDee Toys needed her expertise. Carter might not be toy-smart, but he was savvy enough to know when he needed to call in the cavalry.

“Despite what you think of me, will you help me?” he asked.

“No, Mr. Matthews, I won’t. Not until you stop looking at running a business as one big beach volleyball game.” With that, the car door slammed shut and she was gone.

Carter sat back against the leather seat and sighed. What had Uncle Harry been thinking? Why would his uncle, who had set the playboy precedent in the Matthews family, name Carter as the heir of TweedleDee Toys, one of Harry’s many companies—or hobbies since he rarely did much more than dabble in something once he owned it—in his will?

Harry must have thought it would be the ultimate ha-ha on the Matthews family. Give the company to the one with the smallest sense of humor and see it tank. That was one to chuckle about at the next Thanksgiving dinner.

Despite his wealthy and crazy uncle’s predictions, Carter wanted to see TweedleDee Toys succeed. Damn it all, he didn’t just want it to succeed, he wanted it to corner twenty-five percent of the three-to-six-year-old market and thirty-percent of the preteens. They were lofty goals, but at the time he’d been full of fire and arrogance.

Nevertheless, he’d done his homework, putting those rusty college skills into practice. He’d arranged his goal sheets, set a chart of profit projections and sales quotas. The rest should have happened by now. But it hadn’t.

Because as failure had become a bigger part of his day than success, he’d abandoned those lofty goals and starry-eyed ideas to play golf, unable to witness the company’s demise.

Well, Carter wasn’t going to sit by any longer. And maybe, if he could prove Daphne Williams wrong, then there was hope to turn the tide with all the other naysayers.

Reilly, Daphne’s assistant, looked up from his desk when she walked in, his observant eyes studying her—and missing nothing. “You’re looking awfully pensive this morning. And a tad ticked off.”

“Who, me?” She affected a blank look.

“Yes, you.” He crossed his arms over his bright purple shirt and maroon tie, a color combo that belied Reilly’s fiftyish age. In a steady relationship with Elton, his “significant man” for more than twenty-five years, Reilly often acted more like a mother hen than an assistant. A nosy mother hen, Daphne amended, as Reilly’s light green eyes narrowed to study her. “You also look…different. Did you meet someone? A new client? A nice guy?”

She refused to answer the question. Besides, she hadn’t met a nice guy—just a guy with nice looks. “We have a meeting with the people from Lawford Community Bank in six minutes. I think we need to focus on that.”

“No, we don’t. They called five minutes ago and rescheduled for next Tuesday. Something about a surprise audit.” Reilly crossed to a carafe sitting on the credenza behind his desk and poured them each a cup of coffee, handing one of the white mugs to Daphne. He perched on the edge of one of the desks. “So now we have some time and you can answer my question. Did you meet someone?”

“No.” Daphne let out a laugh at the absurdity of the thought before taking a sip of the steaming brew. “Definitely no.”

Reilly grinned. “I’d say definitely yes. The lady doth protest too much.” Daphne turned away and got busy hanging her purse on the coat tree by the door. “I wish you’d quit going to those Shakespeare in the Park productions. It gives you too many ideas. I swear, you’re like a walking romance novel.”

“Et tu Brute?” Reilly placed a hand over his heart and did his best to look stricken. “I thought you liked my poetic interpretations of the bard.”

“Not when you’re interpreting up the wrong tree.” Daphne crossed the room, pulled her swivel chair up to her desk and began going through her stack of messages, the pile of pink While You Were Out papers fluttering like a skinny deck of cards. Satisfied there were no immediate emergencies, she laid the stack aside for later and then smoothed her hand over the oak top of the antique desk.

It had been her grandfather’s and had survived everything from the Great Depression to Grandma Williams’s Stickly phase.

But most of all, it was the only thing she had left of the man who had inspired her, until he’d died when she was twelve. He’d been the one who had indulged her imagination, who hadn’t scoffed at time spent staring off into space or drawing impossible inventions. He’d been the only one to encourage her to follow her dreams and find her niche, wherever it might lie.

Every morning when she sat down to work, she felt as if his spirit were welcoming her to the day. For that, Daphne treasured the desk.

“He wouldn’t want you to be a work hermit, you know,” Reilly said quietly, reading her mind. He pulled a chair up beside hers. “You’re always here or off on some trip, helping a client.”

“That’s my job.” She pressed the power button on her computer and waited for the PC to turn on.

“Yeah, but it’s not your life. Your grandfather always wanted more for you.” Reilly had never met her grandfather but had heard enough of Daphne’s stories that he seemed to almost know him.

“I do, too, have a life. Or at least I used to before Jerry and I broke up.”

Reilly laid a hand over hers. In the three years Reilly had worked for her, he and Elton had become her friends, complete with their Cher CD collection and miniature white poodle. It made for a warm workplace, and gave her a shoulder when things got too heavy for Daphne’s own. There were many days when she was grateful she had hired the artistic and talented Reilly.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said, sincerity clear in his voice.

“How do you know? It just happened last night.”

“Jerry was here first thing this morning. He stopped by to give you this.” Reilly dropped a brochure for the creativity center onto her desk.

It had the symbol for Jerry’s family foundation at the bottom. The words “Sponsored By” had been crossed out with a huge red X.

Well, that made it clear where he stood. Once again, Daphne was glad she was rid of a man like that. “I can’t believe he did that. What a total jerk.”

“Ditto,” Reilly said. “What you need is a nice guy. Preferably one with a whole lot of money he’s looking to donate.”

Carter Matthews had been nice, her mind whispered. Gave you a ride to work, even though he was late.

And he was cute. Very cute.

Daphne ignored her mental mutiny, double-clicked on Outlook and pretended to be interested in her schedule for the day. With the rescheduling of the Lawford Community Bank meeting, her day was depressingly empty. Too much time on her hands to think. To Daphne, being idle was never a good thing.

“What are you going to do about the funding for the creativity center?” Reilly asked. “Weren’t you supposed to break ground on the thirtieth?”

“I’m going to call everyone I know. I’m sure at least one of the corporations we’ve worked with will put some money in.”

“And do you have a backup plan?” Reilly asked, concern clear on his face. “Times have been tough in the last few years, so donations are harder to come by.” He sighed. “I tell you, what you need is a rich man with nothing to do with his money but give it to you.”

“I know one of those. Sort of.”

A bad idea, considering how her mind brought up the image of Carter’s eyes and that stubborn lock of hair again. She shook herself. All she needed was more than a granola bar for breakfast and Carter Matthews wouldn’t get to her so easily.

“Really?” Reilly propped his chin into his hands, his ever-observant eyes watching her. “Who?”

“Carter Matthews.” She turned away before Reilly—who she was sure was secretly psychic—could read anything in her eyes. “He gave me a ride to work today. After he totally screwed up my love life.” She put up a hand at Reilly’s question. “Don’t ask. It’s a long story.”

“Ah-hah!” Reilly leaped to his feet and pointed at her. “That’s what you were hiding this morning when you came in. You like him.”

Reilly and Elton had made it their personal mission to see Daphne married—as soon as possible, so she could produce some small children for the childless couple to spoil. Reilly had never seen what he called “long-term breeding potential” in Jerry and had been on her case to find someone better.

She understood his concern, but had resisted his attempts to fix her up. A man only complicated matters. Jerry had been the perfect boyfriend—undemanding, and with few expectations.

Then why had that relationship left her feeling about as fulfilled as a Twinkie? Where the thought of Carter Matthews left her with the fullness of a seven-course meal?

“I met him, but don’t go calling the preacher,” she cautioned. “He’s not someone I’d ever date—just a guy who owes me. Big time.” She didn’t tell Reilly the details. If she did, he’d feel inclined to put in his two cents—whether she wanted them or not.

When she’d hired Reilly Muldoon, she’d told him she wanted him to be an active voice in the company. She should have clarified how active that voice could be.

“Uh-huh. And this Carter—someone you aren’t interested in at all, despite the fact that your face lit up just talking about him—you’re really not interested in him?”

Her face had lit up? Jeez. She really needed more food in the morning.

“Not one bit.”

Reilly wagged a finger at her. “I know interest, and honey, you have it all over your face. I say you should call him. Make the first move. Go after what you want.”

“Reilly…” She gave up the admonishment and rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And in my opinion—”

She put up a hand to stop him. “Which I didn’t ask for.”

As usual, Reilly went on, ignoring her. “If this guy had any brains at all and an ounce of testosterone, he’ll be knocking on your door with wine, roses and a smile.”

“He’s a playboy, Reilly. A six-foot-tall, walking nightmare.”

“So you noticed his height?” Reilly asked, grinning. “Anything else?”

“No, nothing. Now leave me alone.”

“You never know.” Reilly tick-tocked his finger at her. “This playboy might just be the one.”

“The one for what?”

“The one to win your heart.” He clutched his own chest and let out a dramatic sigh.

That would never happen. Daphne had made sure that particular piece of her anatomy wasn’t up for grabs.

CHAPTER THREE

CARTER sat at his desk, holding the latest toy prototype for the Christmas catalog and let out a gust of frustration. At this point, he almost preferred the cat disaster.

Almost.

“This is what I pay you guys to come up with?” Carter turned the twelve-inch doll over. “An action figure that cleans?”

Paul Simmons, the former assistant head of the toy team, newly promoted to head designer after Jim’s quick exit earlier today, sat back in the opposite chair and gestured toward the skinny, apron-clad male figurine. The doll carried a feather duster in one hand and a blue spray bottle in the other. “That’s not just any action figure. It’s SuperClean Man,” he said, clearly proud of his team’s creation. “He can sweep a floor in one fell swoop. Leap over three filled water buckets in a single bound and stop a speeding muddy dog with his bare hands.”

Carter held himself back from rolling his eyes. A good CEO would show support for his staff. Get right behind them with window cleaner and a good rag. “I thought we decided to come up with a toy that would make little boys aspire to big things. A role model of sorts.”

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