Praise for Barbara McCauley’s SECRETS!

“Ms. McCauley does a splendid job of producing heroes to die for. This scrumptious series is a keeper to read again and again.”

—Rendezvous

“Barbara McCauley makes our hearts sing with delight, with zesty interplay and searing passion all wrapped up in a marvelous love story.”

—Melinda Helfer, Romantic Times Magazine

“Ms. McCauley’s latest series is a hit. Fans, old and new, will be delighted with this one.”

—Rendezvous

You loved Blackhawk’s Sweet Revenge, Secret Baby Santos and Killian’s Passion.

Now Barbara McCauley brings her fans another scintillating book

Callan’s Proposition

And look for the next installment as the SECRETS! series continues this August in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Dear Reader,

This April of our 20th anniversary year, Silhouette will continue to shower you with powerful, passionate, provocative love stories!

Cait London offers an irresistible MAN OF THE MONTH, Last Dance, which also launches her brand-new miniseries FREEDOM VALLEY. Sparks fly when a strong woman tries to fight her feelings for the rugged man who’s returned from her past. Night Music is another winner from BJ James’s popular BLACK WATCH series. Read this touching story about two wounded souls who find redeeming love in each other’s arms.

Anne Marie Winston returns to Desire with her emotionally provocative Seduction, Cowboy Style, about an alpha male cowboy who seeks revenge by seducing his enemy’s sister. In The Barons of Texas: Jill by Fayrene Preston, THE BARONS OF TEXAS miniseries offers another feisty sister, and the sexy Texan who claims her.

Desire’s theme promotion THE BABY BANK, in which interesting events occur on the way to the sperm bank, continues with Katherine Garbera’s Her Baby’s Father. And Barbara McCauley’s scandalously sexy miniseries SECRETS! offers another tantalizing tale with Callan’s Proposition, featuring a boss who masquerades as his secretary’s fiancé.

Please join in the celebration of Silhouette’s 20th anniversary by indulging in all six Desire titles—which will fulfill your every desire!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Callan’s Proposition
Barbara McCauley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA McCAULEY

was born and raised in California and has spent a good portion of her life exploring the mountains, beaches and deserts so abundant there. The youngest of five children, she grew up in a small house, and her only chance for a moment alone was to sneak into the backyard with a book and quietly hide away.

With two children of her own now and a busy household, she still finds herself slipping away to enjoy a good novel. A daydreamer and incurable romantic, she says writing has fulfilled her most incredible dream of all—breathing life into the people in her mind and making them real. She has one loud and demanding Amazon parrot named Fred and a German shepherd named Max. When she can manage the time, she loves to sink her hands into freshly-turned soil and make things grow.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

One

Hot shower. Cold Beer. Woman.

Callan Sinclair sighed just thinking about the top three items on his “to do” list. After four hours of wading through rain and mud at the construction site in Woodbury, thirty minutes changing a flat on his truck, then nearly four hours on the road, Callan knew that the shower should come first. His jeans and boots were covered with dried mud, and a fine layer of concrete dust made his hair look gray instead of black. And with a throat that felt like a feather duster, the beer would be right behind.

He could see himself now, sitting on a stool at his brother Reese’s tavern, a tall, frothy ale in an ice-covered mug in his hand, a ball game on the overhead television and Bonnie Raitt blasting from the jukebox. He could almost hear her deep, throaty moan about love gone wrong.

He could probably leave the woman part of his “list” until the morning, Callan thought as he trudged up the stairs to his second-story office, but Abigail, his secretary, had seemed determined to reach him. She’d paged him three times this morning while he was still at the job site, but he’d forgotten to charge his cell phone the night before and the battery had gone dead.

Whatever the crisis was, Callan was certain that his secretary could take care of it. Behind her tight blond bun, oversize glasses and tailored suits was the most organized, efficient, competent secretary in the world. During the year she’d worked for him, she’d always been on time, was never moody or subject to emotional outbursts, was terrific with the clients and best of all, she never bothered him with annoying chatter about her personal life.

Cal didn’t even think she had a personal life. He supposed that most people would consider her dull, but what did he care? To him, Abigail Thomas was perfect in every way that mattered.

Cal glanced at his watch as he reached for the office door. It was four o’clock, so he had time to handle whatever problem Abigail might be having, stop by his apartment for a shower, then get over to the tavern for a beer. Maybe he’d give Shelly Michaels a call, see if she wanted to join him. He hadn’t had much time for female companionship lately, but he and Shelly saw each other from time to time. She was sexy and fun and didn’t think about wedding rings if a guy asked her out more than once. At thirty-three, Cal knew he should be thinking about settling down, but he wasn’t quite ready for the Big Squeeze yet. Maybe another year or two. Or three. Besides, he’d always thought that Gabe, being the oldest, should be the first to jump into those cold, deep waters. To go boldly where no man had gone before—or in this case, no Sinclair man.

So for now, the only steady woman in Callan’s life was his secretary. Dependable, reliable, steadfast Abigail.

She’d worked for him almost a year now, well, technically for Sinclair Construction, but Gabe handled renovations and remodels and was rarely in the office, and Lucian was site foreman and used his trailer as his office. Which left Callan in charge of development and running the main office, which he knew very little about because that was Abigail’s job. Since Sinclair Construction had opened its door five years ago, they had gone through countless secretaries, five in the past two years alone. And then Abigail had walked in, and he knew he’d found a gem. She was definitely a dream come true.

When he opened his office door, he blinked twice, then looked back at the sign on the door. Sinclair Construction. He had the right office.

But not the right woman.

A petite brunette with very large breasts, dressed in a very low-cut, very tight, pink top sat behind Abigail’s desk. She was talking on the phone, and when she saw him, she raised one very long, very red fingernail as a signal for him to wait a minute.

What the hell?

The woman wasn’t the only thing wrong here, Cal thought in disbelief. So was the office. Mail spilled over the top of the desk; manila folders were spread out on the waiting area armchairs; file cabinet drawers were wide open. A makeshift clothesline of white string stretched from the top of his inner office door to the top of his brother Gabe’s office door. Paper-clipped to it was a set of architectural blueprints covered with brown stains. There was also a faint smell of something burning.

“Didn’t I tell Tina that Joe Gastoni was bad news,” the brunette was saying into the phone. “But does she listen to her best friend? Of course not, so now she’s crying her eyes out, poor thing.”

The brunette glanced up again from her call, and Cal frowned darkly at her. He started to move toward the desk, but stumbled over a package lying in the middle of the floor. The earthy swearword he muttered had the brunette sitting up straight.

“Gotta go, Sue. I’ll call you later.” She hung up the phone and smiled. “May I help you?”

“Who are you?” he all but growled.

She raised one thinly shaped brow. “May I ask who you are first?”

“Callan Sinclair.”

She narrowed her eyes in thought, then opened them wide. “Oh, Sinclair. You must be Gabe and Lucian’s brother. They own this company, but I haven’t met them yet.”

“We all own this company,” Cal said tightly. “And your name is?”

“Francine. I’m from the employment agency.”

“Where’s Abigail? Is she sick?”

“Abigail?” The brunette furrowed her brow. “Oh, you mean the woman who used to work here.”

“No,” he said slowly and carefully. “I mean the woman who does work here. Blond hair, big glasses. About five-seven. Abigail Thomas.”

“Oh, her. Right. Well, she quit,” Francine chirped. “I’m her replacement.”

Quit? Impossible. Abigail wouldn’t quit. Cal glanced around his office, then back at Francine. “What the hell happened here?”

Eyes wide behind a thick layer of mascara and purple eye shadow, she looked around the room. “Well, it’s only my first day, for Heaven’s sake. I still have to learn your filing system. It’s very confusing.”

The alphabet was confusing? Cal felt his skull pressing in on his brain as he waved a hand at the hanging blueprints. “And this?”

“Oh, gosh, Wayne feels awful about that.”

“Wayne?”

“Cute little old gray-haired man, mustache.”

“The civil engineer?”

She nodded. “I was helping him roll out the plans for one of your projects, and he sort of spilled his coffee.”

Cal gritted his teeth. With the way Francine was about to fall out of her top, he was surprised Wayne hadn’t had a coronary.

When he noticed that the computer screen on the desk in front of the brunette was flashing “Fatal Error, File Deleted,” Cal was certain he was going to have a coronary.

How could this have happened in one day? Cal had spoken with Abigail only yesterday. Everything had been fine. Terrific, in fact. How could she just leave him like this? Without any notice or even a word of goodbye? She wouldn’t do this to him.

“Do either of my brothers know about Miss Thomas leaving?” Cal asked his new, and soon-to-be-former, secretary.

Francine shook her head. “They haven’t been in the office today. Miss Thomas told me that Gabe mostly works out of his house and Lucian rarely comes in here. Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Sinclair?”

Cal glanced at the coffeepot on the counter behind the woman. So that was what he smelled burning. With a scowl, he looked back at Francine. “Did Miss Thomas say anything to you about why she left, or where she went?”

The question seemed a difficult one for Francine. She chewed on her bright-pink bottom lip. “No, not that I can remember.”

Not that she could remember? Cal clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth might crack. “Are you sure?” he asked with a patience he’d offer a six-year-old.

When the woman narrowed her eyes in concentration, they seemed to disappear behind heavy black strokes of eyeliner. “No, she didn’t say a word. Oh—” she brightened, and her eyes returned “—but she did ask me to tell you she left a letter on your desk.”

Francine was still rattling on about something or other when Cal made a dash for his office, found the envelope sitting in the middle of his desk and ripped it open.

Dear Mr. Sinclair,

I regret to inform you that it has become necessary for me to leave my position as secretary for Sinclair Construction. I apologize that I was unable to give you proper notice. I realize that it is unforgivable, and I can only hope that Francine will be a competent replacement.

Thank you for employing me for the past year. I enjoyed working for you.

Sincerely,

Abigail Thomas

Cal stared at the letter. It was typed and signed, neat as a pin.

That was it? I enjoyed working for you, but hasta la vista, baby? No reason, no explanation?

He crumpled the letter. Dammit, he’d find her and make her tell him what the hell this was all about. He’d pay her double, triple, her wage, if that’s what she wanted. She could have more time off—not too much, of course—sick days, pension, car mileage. Anything.

He’d drive over to her house right now, he decided. Forget the shower, forget the beer. Forget everything. This was an emergency. He started for the door and stopped.

Where the hell did she live?

She’d worked for him a year, and he had no idea where her house was. Or apartment. She could live at a hotel for all he knew. Or with her family.

Did she have family? He wasn’t certain. Dammit, dammit, how could he know so little about her?

He would start with his files. There had to be an address somewhere. He’d find her, and when he did—

The phone rang, and he snatched it off the hook in his office before that so-called secretary in the outer office could get it. “What is it?” he shouted into the phone.

“That’s a fine way to answer your phone,” his brother Reese said on the other end of the line.

“I’ve got a crisis here, what do you want?”

“Does it have anything to do with your secretary?”

Cal’s hand tightened on the phone. “What do you know about my secretary?”

“Not much,” Reese said. “Except that she’s sitting in a booth in my tavern about twenty feet away from me, and she seems quite determined to get herself drunk. I just thought—”

Cal slammed down the phone and headed for the door, ignoring the look of surprise on Francine’s face as he rushed past her. Abigail getting drunk? Cal thought incredulously. She didn’t drink. Or did she? He had no idea. She could be a raging alcoholic, for all he knew.

He’d find out soon enough, he resolved. He intended to learn everything there was to know about Miss Abigail Thomas. And then he’d bring her right back here, where she belonged.

No matter what the cost.

Abigail had never been inside Squire’s Tavern and Inn before. For the past year she’d driven by the establishment every day on her way to and from work, but until today she’d never considered going in. Like its name suggested, the tavern’s theme was Old English: the ceiling was open beamed; the walls were covered with dark wood paneling; the huge fireplace had been built of rugged stone. Except for the television over the bar and the Bob Seger song playing from the corner jukebox, Abigail could easily picture the restaurant-bar as a setting for a pub in one of Shakespeare’s plays.

It was still early in the day, and she was thankful there were only a few other people in the tavern: a man and woman at a small table sharing a bottle of wine and three men at the bar drinking beer and eating pretzels. No one seemed to notice her, but that wasn’t unusual. No one ever noticed Abigail Thomas.

And that was exactly the way she wanted it.

Taking a deep breath, Abigail sat straighter, then took a sip from the thin, red plastic straw in the drink the waitress had brought her.

And choked.

Good Lord! She felt as if she’d swallowed liquid fire. Grabbing the white paper napkin that her glass had been sitting on, she pressed it daintily to her lips and breathed through her mouth. She’d managed to reach the ripe old age of twenty-six without knowing that hard alcohol tasted so awful, and she wouldn’t mind another twenty-six years without tasting it again. She’d ordered the harmless-sounding drink from a small plastic menu, and she realized now she probably should have asked the waitress what was in the mixture.

Whatever it was, it burned all the way down her throat clear to her stomach and was currently working its way to her toes. She should have ordered a glass of wine, not because she especially liked wine, but at least it didn’t make her choke.

Oh, what did it matter? she thought, and held her breath this time as she took another long sip. She wasn’t drinking for pleasure.

She was drinking for effect.

After several more minutes and several more sips, Abigail decided that the effect was pleasurable, after all, in an ethereal kind of way. She felt lighter, and the soft buzz in her head made her smile at the silliest things—like the enormous ears on one of the men sitting at the bar or the monkey playing the piano on the television set mounted on the wall. That was hilarious.

Wincing, she took another sip and shivered as it slid down her throat. Maybe before the night was through she’d find some humor in quitting her job, too.

Abigail had worried all day about the woman the agency had sent to replace her. Francine had not been dressed appropriately, nor had she had adequate training. But she was all the agency had, and Abigail had been compelled to hire her. With Aunt Ruby and Aunt Emerald coming into town tomorrow afternoon, there was no way Abigail could stay at Sinclair Construction.

How could she face Mr. Sinclair once he found out that she’d lied? It would be too humiliating, too demoralizing.

So she’d quit. She felt awful leaving him without the proper notice, but she’d had no choice. If Francine didn’t work out, he would find someone else. He’d have to.

She felt the burn of tears in her eyes and blinked them away. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Mr. Callan Sinclair. She was in a public place, for Heaven’s sake, and she certainly didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. She simply wanted to sit here, alone, and forget about her boss and her job and her aunts coming into town.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave…” she thought to herself.

With a sigh she took another long sip of her drink and was surprised when it didn’t taste nearly as bad as it had the first few sips. She thought it actually tasted kind of good, in fact. A little sweet, yet sour at the same time. And it made her insides feel warm.

She liked the feeling, she decided, and loosened the top button of the white blouse she had on under her brown suit jacket. For the next few hours she was determined not to think about the mess she’d made of her life.

She’d have plenty of time for that tomorrow. Or worse—she loosened another button—for the rest of her life.

The song on the jukebox changed to a number from the musical Grease, the one where Olivia Newton-John’s character tells John Travolta he’d “better shape up.” She smiled at the song, mentally singing along with the piece she knew only too well.

In her mind Abby crushed a cigarette under her four-inch heel, pointed a finger at Travolta and wiggled her hips as she told him she needed a man to keep her satisfied. Strange that the man in her mind didn’t look like Travolta, but like Mr. Sinclair.

“Mind if I join you?”

Abigail jumped, then slowly, breath held, glanced over her shoulder.

Oh, dear.

Abigail’s heart started to pound as she stared up at Callan Sinclair. His dark-chocolate-brown eyes bored into her, his mouth was pressed into a tight line. He looked so serious, she thought. So somber. For some strange reason, she suddenly found that very funny.

But rather than be rude and laugh, she composed herself, straightened her glasses and simply nodded.

He slid into the seat across from her and filled the booth. Filled her senses. He looked and smelled like a man who’d marched through mud and muck, and she wondered why the earthy scent of him fascinated her so. Or why she found the gray powder covering his hair and chambray shirt so attractive. Rugged was the word that came to mind. And virile.

Normally Abigail found Callan Sinclair’s presence intimidating. At six-three, his height alone was enough to make a person—man or woman—take notice. And he certainly was powerfully built, with solid muscles and a broad chest. He was also incredibly handsome, she thought, with his thick, black hair and devastating smile.

But he wasn’t smiling now, she realized, and she was the reason.

He placed his large hands flat on the wood tabletop and leaned close. He had wonderful hands, she thought, staring at them. A man’s hands, large and rough, with short, blunt nails and a long, jagged scar on his right thumb. She had the craziest desire to cover those hands with her own, to feel their roughness under her smooth palms.

When she lifted her eyes to his, the intensity of his dark gaze seemed to suck the air right out of her lungs. She couldn’t remember ever having had his undivided attention like this or having him look at her, really look at her as he was looking at her right now. For the first time in the past year, she didn’t feel as if she were invisible.

She wasn’t certain she liked the feeling at all.

“Mr. Sinclair—”

“I refuse to accept your resignation.”

His deep, familiar voice had never sounded so gruff before, so firm. He cares about me, she thought in amazement, then quickly chided herself. As an employee, of course.

She folded her hands primly in her lap and held his level gaze. “I apologize for leaving so suddenly, but I’m certain that Francine will work out for you. She’s really quite—”

“I said—” he leaned closer, lowering his voice, but it still sounded like a shout “—I refuse to accept your resignation. Francine is history. I want you, Abigail.”

His words thrilled her, yet flustered her at the same time. I want you, Abigail. She felt herself sway toward him.

As a secretary, you ninny, Abigail yelled silently at herself. She blinked, then pulled back. Because she didn’t know what to say, she took another long pull on her drink. It didn’t burn at all now; it tasted wonderful. She realized it was nearly gone and didn’t want it to be.

“May I buy you a drink, Mr. Sinclair?” She’d never bought a man a drink in her life. Except for Lester Green at the insurance company she’d worked for in New York, but that was a root beer from the soda machine, so she didn’t think it counted. And Lester didn’t have sexy eyes like Mr. Sinclair did. He had eyes like Eeyore.

That thought made her giggle. Her ex-boss raised one brow and looked down at the glass in front of her. “What do you have?”

“Iced tea.”

“Iced tea?”

“Manhattan iced tea,” she repeated and took another sip.

He coughed, then raised both brows. “You mean a Long Island iced tea?”

“That’s it,” she said with delight. “Would you like one?”

“Have you ever had one before?” he asked carefully.

“Of course not, silly.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Mr. Sinclair, I’m so sorry.”

“Why don’t you call me Callan for right now?” he said with a sigh, then turned and made a gesture to a man standing behind the bar.

A man who looked strangely familiar, Abigail thought, and slid her reading glasses down her nose so she could get a better look. “Do you know that man?” she asked.

“My brother Reese,” he answered. “He owns this place.”

Reese Sinclair. Abigail nearly groaned. He’d been in the office several times over the past year. In her dis-composed state, she’d forgotten he owned Squire’s Tavern. So that was how Mr. Sinclair had found her so quickly.

Darn it, darn it, darn it.

“Mr. Sinclair, I truly am—”

“Callan,” he reminded her.

“Callan,” she said awkwardly. She’d never called him by his first name. “I’m sorry for leaving your employment so suddenly. I’m afraid I had no choice.”

The waitress brought a frosted mug of beer and a steaming cup of coffee, then quickly left. Callan pushed the coffee at her.

She didn’t want coffee. For the first time today, her stomach wasn’t in knots, and her chest wasn’t aching. She felt calm and relaxed and just a little giddy.

And hot. She felt hot. She unloosened another button and, ignoring the coffee, took another sip of her drink. She still felt hot, so she slipped her jacket off.

Callan’s beer sloshed over the side of his mug when she fanned the open vee of her blouse. He frowned at her and set his drink back down. “You owe me an explanation, Abigail. You can’t just leave me and not even tell me why. Did you find another job?”

“No.”

“Do you want more money?”

She lifted her chin at his insult. “Certainly not. If I’d wanted more money, I would have asked you.”

“So why did you quit?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s personal.”

Callan’s eyes darkened with concern. “Are you sick?”

She shook her head.

“Pregnant?”

“Heavens, no!” Her eyes went wide at the absurdity of that question.

He thought for a minute. “You’re engaged.”

She blinked slowly, then her gaze dropped, and she took another sip of her drink.

“That’s it?” He leaned closer, surprise on his face. “You’re engaged?”

Her heart started to pound. She wanted to deny it, tell him that her being engaged was absolute nonsense, but even with alcohol rushing through her veins, she still couldn’t lie.

“Something like that,” she mumbled, and felt her cheeks burn.

“Something like that?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“Excuse me?” she repeated.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Bloomfield isn’t all that big a town, maybe I know him.”

The foolishness of her situation suddenly struck Abigail. She covered her mouth and started to laugh. Callan stared at her incredulously.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You are,” she said between giggles.

“I’m funny?”

“No.” She sucked in a breath and composed herself. “You’re my fiancé.”

Two

He was her fiancé?

Callan stared at her, narrowed his eyes, then stared at her some more. She’d said the words perfectly clearly, but he must have heard her wrong.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re my fiancé.” She stared down into her near-empty drink, and her glasses started to slip down her nose. She pushed them back up with her index finger and looked at him, her brow furrowed. “Don’t you see that’s why I had to quit? It’s so humiliating.”

He didn’t see at all. In fact, he was completely blind on this one. It had to be the drink, he decided. She was confused. Extremely confused.

But then, so was he.

“It’s humiliating to be engaged to me?” he asked.

“Of course it is.”

Callan frowned at the exasperation in her voice. What was so wrong with him that she’d be embarrassed to be engaged to him? A lot of women found him attractive, and more than one had tried to lead him on that walk down the aisle. Just because he and Abigail were so completely different and had never been attracted to each other was certainly no reason to be humiliated.

Oh, for crying out loud, he thought, rolling his eyes. What the hell was he thinking? They weren’t engaged. Or anything even remotely close. He shook his head and laughed at himself, amazed that Abigail had actually managed to tweak his male pride.

He leaned back in the booth, tried not to notice that Abigail had not only removed her jacket, but had loosened three buttons. The unmistakable swell of full breasts rose from the opened blouse. Good Lord, he’d never thought about Abigail having breasts, let alone such nice ones. He reached for his beer and forced his eyes to stay steady on her flushed face.

He had to remind himself what they’d been talking about. Oh, yes. She was humiliated to be engaged to him. “Abigail, I hate to tell you this, but we’re not engaged.”

She laughed, then flipped her hand at him with a you’re-such-a-silly-boy gesture. “Of course we’re not. But Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby don’t know that.”

He was afraid to ask. “Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby?”

“They’re coming to visit tomorrow, before they go on their two-week cruise in the Caribbean.” The smile on her face dissolved. She leaned back in the booth and closed her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s hot in here?”

When Abigail reached up and opened another button on her blouse, exposing more of her breasts and the top edge of her pale-green lace bra, Callan felt his throat turn to powder.

She was right. It was hot in here.

He had to get her out of here. Fast. For her sake as much as his own. Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby and engagements would have to wait for now.

Sliding out of the booth, he reached for the suit jacket she’d removed, then slipped a hand behind her back and pulled her toward him. Her skin was remarkably warm through her blouse, and the faint feminine scent of her perfume drifted into his senses. He’d never noticed she wore perfume before, he thought, as he tugged her jacket back on her and pulled the front tightly closed.

Her eyes opened wide. They were green, he realized. Soft green. He’d never noticed that before, either. She stared indignantly at him. “Mr. Sinclair, what are you doing?”

He sighed heavily. “I’m taking you home.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She shrugged out of his hold and straightened her jacket, then peered up at him with a strange squint. “You don’t look anything like John Travolta.”

He had no idea how to respond to that one. “Okay.”

“I just want you to know how much I enjoyed working for you, Mr. Sinclair—”

“Callan.”

“Callan,” she said his name softly, as if she’d never heard it before. She looked at him for a long moment, then whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes before she turned and wobbled away. Abigail cry? No, Callan thought. Abigail didn’t cry. She was always so…so together.

Well, except for at the moment, anyway. He watched her teeter toward the rest rooms, then raised his brows when she walked into the men’s room.

Uh-oh.

He was on his way to rescue her when she came back out of the rest room, her face bright red. Tom Winters, Bloomfield County Mayor, came out a few steps behind her. His face was red, too.

“Callan.” Tom nodded stiffly and kept walking.

“Tom.” Callan held back the threatening grin.

“Mr. Sinclair.” Abigail put a hand on his arm and leaned against him, then said in a small voice, “Callan, could you please drive me home?”

Abigail’s home was only three short blocks away: a little white cottage covered with thick vines of pink roses. Callan hadn’t quite pictured Abigail in such a feminine-looking house, but then, he hadn’t ever pictured her in any style house.

He pulled his truck into the narrow asphalt driveway, thankful that she’d at least been clear-headed enough to give directions. He cut the engine and climbed out, then came around and opened the door for her. She reached for her purse at the same time she stepped out, and ended up sliding off the seat into his arms. Her body pressed against his while he steadied her.

“Excuse me,” she said, then hiccuped.

Damn, but Abigail was soft, Callan thought. And curvy. Damn.

She pressed a palm against his chest and pushed away from him, then straightened her glasses. Long strands of blond hair had escaped from the bun at the back of her head and tumbled around her flushed face. “Thank you for the ride home, Mr. Sinclair. Goodbye.”

He watched her turn on unsteady legs and walk crookedly toward her front door. Goodbye? No way he was leaving. He had no intention of letting her out of his sight. Especially in her condition.

He followed her up the brick walkway, noticing that her lawn was mowed and neatly edged, her bushes trimmed and her flower beds free of weeds. She paused when she reached the step leading onto her front porch and stared at it as if it were a steep cliff.

“Abigail.” He took her arm and helped her up the step. “We need to talk.”

She dug through her purse. “Here they are.” She pulled her keys from her purse and smiled brightly.

He took the keys from her and opened the door. “How ’bout I make us some coffee?”

She laughed at that. “You make coffee? I’m supposed to make the coffee, remember? That’s my job.” She frowned suddenly. “At least it was my job. Until I quit. Francine will have to make you coffee now.”

Callan shuddered at the thought and ushered Abigail inside the door. The living room was cozy: the over-stuffed blue-gingham sofa was accented with floral pillows; the walls were covered with various watercolor landscapes. A thick, deep-blue rug edged with pink flowers lay neatly on the shiny hardwood floor. A crystal vase filled with fragrant pink roses sat on top of an oval mahogany coffee table.

She was as tidy and organized at home as she was at work, Callan thought, but he hadn’t expected all the hearts-and-flowers decor. He’d have thought her home would be more…simple. Plain.

Dull was actually the word that came to mind.

Except it wasn’t dull at all, he thought. It was warm and comfortable. Homey. He realized he had a lot to learn about Abigail. A whole lot.

But he would think about the many unknown facets of Abigail Thomas later. At the moment he intended to start with the mystery of her sudden departure from his office and where their strange engagement and her aunts fit into the puzzle.

Now where had she disappeared to?

He heard the pop of a cork and followed the sound into her kitchen. Barefoot, Abigail stood at the counter, pouring white wine into a glass.

He groaned silently.

“Abigail,” he said, moving behind her. “I thought we were going to have coffee.”

“No-o-o-o,” she said, stretching the word out as she kept pouring. Some of the wine actually made it into the glass. “You’re going to have coffee. I’m having wine.”

“You don’t drink much, do you?” he asked.

She giggled at that. “Heavens, no. I don’t care for the taste, and besides, it affects me terribly.”

That was an understatement, he thought, then swooped the glass of wine off the counter when she started to reach for it. He took a sip. Yuck. He’d take a cold beer over white wine any day. “Thanks.”

She frowned at him. “I thought you wanted coffee.”

“I changed my mind.” He took a second sip, tried not to grimace. She was reaching for another glass when he took her arm and led her to the kitchen table. “Abigail, you owe it to me to tell me why you quit.”

Pulling out a chair, he gently eased her into it. Her skirt pulled high up on her legs when she sat, exposing smooth, slender thighs. The Abigail he knew would have quickly pulled her skirt back down. This Abigail left it to ride high on her legs. Callan glanced away and took another sip of wine, thankful that at least she still had her jacket on.

He kept his eyes riveted on her face.

She leaned her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. “It’s so humiliating.”

“We established that.” He sat in the chair beside her. A fluffy, ruffled blue-striped pad covered the seat. “You and me being engaged. Why don’t we start with that?”

“I don’t feel well,” she said from behind her hands.

“Could you please get me a drink of water?”

He doubted a drink of water would help her problem, but if he was ever going to get any information out of her, Callan thought, he’d better humor her. He took a glass out of the cupboard, filled it with tap water, then set it in front of her as he sat back down.

And realized that she’d nearly emptied the glass of wine he’d so foolishly left sitting on the table.

“Abigail!”

With her hands folded primly in her lap, she straightened her shoulders and looked at him. Her glasses were tilted on her straight little nose, and the expression on her face was one of complete innocence. In a very strange way she looked kind of cute, Callan thought.

Rather than straighten her glasses, he reached over and took them off, then set them on the table. Her eyes were big and wide as she blinked at him, then hiccuped. He couldn’t help but smile. “Abigail, tell me why you quit.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I had to. With Aunt Ruby and Aunt Emerald coming in tomorrow, they would have found out.”

“Found out what?”

“That we’re not engaged.”

“But we’re not engaged.”

“Exactly.” She threw a hand up in the air and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you understand.”

But he didn’t. Not at all. “Abigail, why do your aunts think that you and I are engaged?”

“Well, I told them we were, of course. Why else would they think such a thing?”

Well, of course. Silly me. He counted to five, then drew in a slow breath. “And why did you tell them we were engaged?”

“What else was I supposed to do? They would have canceled their cruise, maybe even insisted on moving in with me here. I had to do something.”

“They would have canceled their cruise and moved in with you if we weren’t engaged?” He shook his head in confusion. “Why?”

Leaning in close to him, she whispered, “They think I need a man.”

Ah. He almost—just almost—thought he was beginning to understand. “They do?”

She nodded. “We lived together for two years in New York after I finished college, but it got so bad I finally moved here to Bloomfield County.”

He saw her eyeing the wineglass in front of him, and he scooted it out of her reach. “What got so bad?”

“The men. Every week they’d bring home their latest catch for me. Sometimes if my aunts didn’t coordinate, there would be two men at the same time.” She held up two fingers to emphasize, and her eyes crossed as she stared at them. “Imagine every time you turned around there were women all over the place. How would you feel?”

He thought about that for a moment and decided she really didn’t want an answer to that question. “Why can’t you just tell your aunts the truth?”

She snorted in laughter, then covered her mouth. “You don’t know my aunts. They’ve been mother hens since my own mother—their sister—died six years ago. They won’t rest until I’m married and have a family of my own. The only reason they’ve left me alone so long was because of you.”

“Me?”

“Our engagement.”

“Oh, yes.” He’d nearly forgotten about that. “And how did you happen to pick me to be the lucky guy?”

“Well, I had to have someone,” she said as if he’d missed the obvious. “I don’t know anyone else here.”

How flattering to know he’d been chosen because there wasn’t anyone else. “You could have made someone up,” he suggested.

“That would be a big lie. I’m not good with big lies. There’s too much to remember, and I always trip myself up. I’m much better with little lies.”

He didn’t exactly think that Abigail telling her aunts they were engaged was a “little” lie, but that wasn’t important right now. Getting her back to work for him was.

“You could have told me this, Abigail.” Callan took her hands in his. He was amazed at how soft and warm they were. “We would have figured something out.”

She stared down at their joined hands. “You think I’m pathetic.”

Oh, no, Callan groaned inwardly. The feminine mind sober was a perilous thing, but on a Long Island iced tea, it was downright dangerous. The only thing more dangerous could be his response. “Of course I don’t think you’re pathetic.”

“Yes, you do.” She yanked her hands from his and stood, though unsteadily. “You think I’m a pathetic prude.”

Shoulders squared, she moved past him. She was halfway through her living room when he caught her arm and turned her around to face him. “Abigail, please—”

She shrugged off his hand. “For your information, Mr. Sinclair, if I really wanted a man, I could find one. I’m not as big a prude as you think I am.”

“Abigail, I don’t—”

She tugged off her jacket and threw it on the floor. “I have a nice enough body.” She reached for the buttons on her already-half-opened blouse.

“Abigail—”

“See?” She opened her blouse and stared down at herself. Her mint-green bra was lace and satin. “They aren’t so bad.”

So bad? His blood shot to his head, then straight down below his waist. Good Lord, she was beautiful. He was only human, for God’s sake. He stared wide-eyed for a full two seconds, then closed his open mouth and pulled the front of her blouse together. His hands were shaking as he closed the top button.

She slumped against him. “Who am I trying to kid?” she said softly, closing her eyes. “I am a prude. I’ve always been a prude. I’ll always be a prude. Abigail Thomas, Queen of the Prudes.”

With a sigh, Callan cupped her chin in his hands and lifted her face to his. “Abigail, I don’t think you’re a prude.”

Her eyes, glazed-green, opened slowly. “You don’t?”

She looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips wide and lush. How could he have never noticed those lips before? he thought. They were incredible. He felt a strange kick in his pulse as he stared down at her. Her skin was pale against his, so smooth and soft. When her eyes closed and her lips parted ever so slightly, he found himself drawn downward, closer…closer…

Good Lord!

He pulled back. This was Abigail, for Heaven’s sake. He couldn’t kiss Abigail.

It had to be the stress of her quitting and his exhaustion from working all day, Callan decided. He wasn’t firing on all his cylinders at the moment. Abigail was his secretary, or at least, she had been his secretary. Which reminded him why he was here in the first place.

He wanted her back.

“Abigail.”

“Hmm?” she murmured, her eyes still closed.

“We need to talk.”

“You want to talk?” Her eyes fluttered open again.

When she swayed against him, he walked her to the sofa and pulled her down onto the soft cushions. He was too dirty to sit, but when he spotted a cotton afghan on the arm of the couch, he spread it out, then sat down on top of it.

“I need you, Abigail,” he said gently.

She looked at him, then blinked. “You do?”

“You’re the best secretary I ever had. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Oh. I see.” She laid her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sinclair, but I can’t come back. I just can’t.”

Callan watched Abigail’s head drift to the side. He would let her rest for a few minutes, he decided, then they’d finish this conversation. Before this night was over, she’d say yes. He was certain of that.

He wasn’t about to let her go. Whatever it took, Callan intended to have Miss Abigail Thomas back where she belonged.

Abigail woke slowly. She couldn’t imagine where the cotton in her mouth had come from. Or the subtle pounding in her temple. That was odd, as well. But certainly not as odd as the steady heartbeat she heard rising from her pillow.

Eyes closed, she listened for a moment. There it was, as loud as if she were listening through a stethoscope. Ba-bump…ba-bump…ba-bump… Deep and steady, it pounded in her ear.

She felt a little stiff and sore, and though it took a moment for her eyes to register the command from her foggy brain, they opened slowly. Blue cotton and white buttons stared back at her.

What in the world?

That’s when she heard the voices. Soft whispers. They seemed very distant, and distinctly familiar.

“He’s a handsome one, don’t you think?”

“Oh, dear me, yes. He looks a lot like Emmett, my leading man from Oklahoma. Heavens, that must have been twenty years ago.”

“His name was Ethan, it was thirty years ago, and they don’t look anything alike. This young man is much more handsome, though he does look a little ragged around the edges. Oh, look, I do believe our Sleeping Beauty is waking up. She has one eye open.”

This has to be a dream, Abigail thought. Dear God, please let it be a dream. Breath held, she opened both eyes.

And slammed them shut again.

She was on the sofa, lying across Mr. Sinclair’s chest. Her blouse was open.

No, no, no, no, no.

“Good morning, Abby, dear,” Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby bubbled at the same time.

Three

They stood beside each other, the quintessential Mutt and Jeff, and smiled down at her. Ruby was the taller of the two, with curly, tomato-red hair she always wore swept up, robust blue eyes and a thunderous voice that could set off a car alarm. Emerald was a pageboy platinum-blonde with big green eyes that always looked surprised and a generous smile that stretched wide across her pale, yet remarkably young-looking face. They were both dressed in a kaleidoscope of bright flowing gauze and dozens of matching plastic bracelets.

Eyes now wide open, Abigail stared at her aunts, then lifted her head and looked at the man whose arms were wrapped around her. Her heart slammed in her chest. She vaguely remembered sitting on the sofa with him last night, but she had no idea how she’d ended up here in his arms. In his arms, for Heaven’s sake! Thank God he was still sleeping, she thought, and carefully tried to slip under his embrace. He mumbled softly and tightened his hold.

She bit back the groan hovering in her throat and gave her aunts a weak smile. They smiled back brightly.

With her dignity long past the point of resurrection, Abigail wiggled gently and eased herself, inch by inch, out from under her boss’s—ex-boss’s, she reminded herself—arms. She’d nearly escaped when he gave a soft snort, then opened his eyes. He stared at her in surprise, then glanced at Ruby and Emerald.

“Good morning,” her aunts boomed in unison.

With a look of panic, he catapulted from the couch. Caught off balance, Abigail tumbled to the floor.

“Oh, dear.” Emerald pressed a hand to her chest.

“Heavens.” Ruby frowned.

Callan dragged a hand through his rumpled hair, then his gaze shifted from the two startled women back down to Abigail.

“Sorry,” he said awkwardly, offering Abigail a hand. Her blouse fell open as he pulled her to her feet. He paled, then turned red. He’s blushing, Abigail thought in amazement and quickly pulled her blouse closed. Mr. Sinclair was actually embarrassed.

And as she remembered why her blouse was open, she felt her own cheeks burn. Ohmigod, she thought with a silent groan. The memory of her near strip-tease sucked the breath from her lungs. Quickly she buttoned her blouse, desperately wishing that the sofa would open up and swallow her whole.

But she would deal with what happened last night later. First she had her aunts to contend with.

“Aunt Emerald, Aunt Ruby.” Abigail’s voice cracked. She straightened the front of her misbuttoned blouse, then cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“We told you we were coming, dear,” Ruby said, though her gaze was still locked on Callan. “Have you forgotten?”

Abigail glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s only seven-thirty in the morning. I was supposed to pick you up at the airport this afternoon at one-thirty. Flight 312, Gate 22.”

“Oh, that.” Emerald waved a hand of dismissal. “We took an earlier flight. Ruby was supposed to tell you.”

“I was not.” Bracelets clacked loudly as Ruby jammed her hands on her well-endowed hips and frowned at her sister. “You were supposed to. I called for the taxi.”

“You’re arguing again, Ruby.” Forever smiling, Emerald faced her sister and waved a finger at her, which also set her own bracelets clacking.

Great, Abigail thought. Just what I need right now—dueling bracelets.

“It doesn’t matter,” Abigail interjected before the discussion could escalate. And knowing her aunts, it most certainly would. Awkwardly she leaned forward and hugged each of them. “It’s…it’s wonderful to see you.”

In spite of the situation, Abigail was surprised that she actually meant it. Her aunts might be eccentric and flamboyant, but she loved them both. They cooed over her, smoothed her hair and kissed her cheek, then glanced at the man whose arms she’d been in less than five minutes ago.

Abigail drew in a deep breath, then said in a rush, “Aunt Emerald, Aunt Ruby, this is Mr. Sinclair.”

Two sets of confused eyes looked back at her. “Mr. Sinclair?”

“My employer.” As delicately as possible she blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I believe I told you about him.”

“You call your fiancé Mr. Sinclair?” Ruby asked.

She bit the inside of her lip. Time to face the piper.

She sucked in another deep breath. “He’s not—”

“—Mr. Sinclair to you lovely ladies, of course,” he said smoothly. “It’s Callan.”

Breath held, Abigail watched as he moved beside her and casually slipped an arm around her shoulders. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and gave her a pinch. “Sometimes Abby can be such a tease.”

Shocked, Abigail stared up at “Callan.” He’d called her “Abby” and said she was a “tease?” She had to be having a hallucination. Some bizarre aftermath of too much alcohol. But when he squeezed her shoulder, he certainly didn’t feel like a hallucination. He felt strong and solid.

“Abby’s told me so much about you both,” he went on. “I realize how strange this must look, finding us like this, but the truth is, we were up so late last night talking about your visit, we fell asleep right here. Isn’t that right, Abby?”

Well, technically his explanation was correct, Abigail supposed, and looked back at her aunts. They beamed with pleasure.

She smiled weakly at them and shifted from one bare foot to the other. Obviously, part of taking off her clothes had included her shoes. “Well, actually, Aunties, the truth is—”

“The truth is,” Callan said, interrupting again, then paused and leaned toward her aunts as he whispered, “Abby had a little too much to drink last night. She never could hold her alcohol very well, you know.”

Emerald and Ruby glanced at each other and nodded compassionately, then Ruby said, “It’s a recessive gene in her father’s side of the family, I’m afraid. The Bliss side of the family is quite tolerant of the spirits, though we only partake on special occasions, of course, and even then with the utmost discretion.”

Abigail choked back a laugh. Discretion was hardly a word that was used synonymously with the Bliss name, and as far as special occasions, the sun rising and setting every day would most likely be considered special to her aunts. But it certainly was true that they were able to consume endless amounts of liquor without any of the side effects that plagued most people, including herself.

Especially herself, Abigail thought as the memory of the previous night began to emerge all too vividly in her mind.

She’d shown him her breasts, for Heaven’s sake. What he must think of her, exposing herself like that to him. How could she ever face him again?

She couldn’t.

She just couldn’t.

But at the moment, however, it seemed as though she had no choice. He still had his arm looped possessively around her shoulder and held her snugly against his broad chest. The heat of his body shimmered through his shirt and radiated through her body all the way down to her bare toes.

“Well?” Ruby’s gaze dropped to her hand, and Emerald leaned forward expectantly. “Let’s see it, dear.”

“See it?” Abby had no idea what her aunts were talking about. “See what?”

“Why, your ring, of course,” Emerald said. “We’ve been so excited ever since we heard the good news.”

“Oh, Aunties, I’m so sorry, but—”

“—we just haven’t found the right one yet,” Callan finished for her. He gave her shoulder a big squeeze. “Something that important has to be perfect, don’t you think?”

Startled, Abby stared up at Callan. What in the world was he talking about?

“Absolutely.” Emerald gave an approving nod. “Mustn’t rush things like that and be sorry for it later.”

Ruby’s expression was thoughtful. “Well, you know, Em, your second marriage with Artemus was rather hasty, may he rest in peace, but you have a lovely two-karat solitaire to remember him by.”

“Not nearly as lovely as that three-karat cluster your third husband gave you,” Emerald replied. “That puppy was the size of a Volkswagen, bless the man’s heart.”

They smiled in fond remembrance, sighed, then quickly turned their attention back to Abby and Callan.

“We’ve love to stay and chat, dear,” Emerald said, and gave her niece a pat on the cheek, “but the taxi is waiting. We’ll call you when we get settled in town.”

“You aren’t staying with me?” Abigail asked incredulously.

“Of course not.” Ruby batted her eyes at Callan. “We wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

Since when? Abigail wondered. Her aunts loved to impose. And the one time she wanted them to, they weren’t? “But—”

“Don’t you worry about us, darling.” Emerald slipped her arm through Ruby’s. “We have rooms at a quaint little place in town. Squire’s Tavern and Inn. The travel agent said that the accommodations and food there are five-star.”

Abigail wasn’t sure about the accommodations or food, but she could personally vouch that the drinks there were at least five-star. She was currently seeing dozens of stars from the drink she’d had there last night.

She groaned silently, remembering that Reese Sinclair owned the inn. It would only be a matter of time before her aunts learned the truth, and Abigail Thomas would be the laughingstock of Bloomfield County. I’ll change my name. Move to a small mountain town. Dye my hair and have plastic surgery.

Gauze flowing, her aunts were halfway to the door when Ruby called over her shoulder, “We insist you both join us at the tavern for lunch. One o’clock sharp, dears. Emmy and I can’t wait to hear all the details of how you two got together.”

“Aunties, wait.” Abigail slipped out from under the arm Mr. Sinclair had draped around her shoulders and started after her aunts, but he caught hold of her hand and held her beside him.

“We’ll be there,” he said cheerfully and waved.

Bracelets clacking, Emerald and Ruby waved back, then exited the room with all the grace and grandeur of royalty.

Abigail closed her eyes, praying this was all a nightmare that she could now awaken from, and her boring little life could go right back to boring. She slowly opened her eyes.

Mr. Sinclair’s face was no more than a foot from hers, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. She sucked in a breath as she stared at that mouth. It was much too close to her own.

“There,” he said casually. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

“Wasn’t so bad?” Moaning, she pulled her hand away from his and sank down on the couch. “I didn’t tell them the truth about us, and now we’re supposed to meet them for lunch? In a public place? That happens to be my definition of bad, Mr. Sinclair. Very bad.”

She fell sideways and covered her head with a floral, fringed throw pillow.

“Abby, first of all, if we’re going to pull this off, you’re going to have to stop calling me Mr. Sinclair. And you’re certainly going to have to loosen up a little. You stiffen up like a board every time I get close to you.”

“Pull what off?” she said into the pillow. “And what do you mean, I stiffen up? I do not.”

“Yes, you do,” he replied. “Now sit up.” She shook her head, then felt the couch dip as he sat beside her. Well, maybe she did stiffen up just a little, she thought, and buried her head deeper under the pillow. “Please go away.”

“I’m not going away.” His finger brushed her cheek when he parted the fringe covering her face. “I’m going to sit right here until you talk to me.”

“I can’t.” She tried to ignore the feel of his callused finger on her cheek and the shiver working its way up her spine. “After what I did last night, I can’t ever talk to, or even look at you, again. In fact, I’m moving to Alaska.”

He chuckled. “And what exactly is it that you think you did?”

Still refusing to look at him, she held up her hand and extended her index finger. “One, I told my aunts that you were my fiancé. Two—” her second finger came up “—I got drunk. Three, I…I—”

She groaned into the pillow. Oh, God. She couldn’t even say she’d nearly stripped for him, let alone believe she’d actually done it.

“Abby.” He said her name softly, then took hold of her shoulders and pulled her upright. When she kept the pillow pressed to her face, he tugged it away from her. “It’s okay to let loose once in a while. You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed about.”

“Easy for you to say.” She still refused to look at him. “You weren’t the one who made an idiot out of yourself.”

Her pulse jumped when he put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. A midnight shadow of beard covered the lower portion of his face, and one thick shock of dark hair fell over his forehead. The rough texture of his finger under her chin sent an army of tiny shivers marching through her.

“You didn’t make an idiot out of yourself,” he said gently. “Actually you were kind of cute.”

“Cute?” She blinked at him. “Mr. Sinclair, please don’t patronize or lie to me.”

He shook his head. “I’m not lying or patronizing. Now say my name.”

“Mr. Sinclair?”

“Callan, or Cal, if you prefer.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “You want your aunts to go on their trip and not move in with you, right?”

“Well, yes, I—”

“Then I’m your man.”

“What?”

“You told me that your aunts think you need a man, right?”

She felt her cheeks burn. “Well, I suppose I may have said—”

“So for the two weeks your aunts are here, I’m your man, Abby.”

“You’re my man?” she whispered.

He nodded. “For two whole weeks, I’m all yours.”

Abigail suddenly found it hard to breathe, let alone speak. Her mind felt sluggish and heavy, but she knew it had nothing to do with the alcohol she’d consumed last night and everything to do with the touch of Callan’s finger on her chin and the way he’d said, “I’m all yours.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I want you back, Abigail,” he said firmly. “And if that means pretending to be your fiancé for a few days, then fine. We’ll make your aunts happy, and after they leave, everything will go back to normal.”

Normal? He actually thought that they could pretend to be engaged, and after her aunts left, they could go back to normal? She didn’t believe that for a moment. This was a very dangerous proposition he was making her. She’d be a fool to accept. A complete and utter fool.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t.

Could she? “My aunts will never believe it,” she said, though her voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

“Well, we’ll just have to be convincing, then, won’t we?” he murmured. “Now say my name.”

She swallowed hard, then squeaked, “Callan.”

He rolled his eyes. “You sound like Minnie Mouse. Try it again.”

She looked at his mouth again, felt her own lips tingle. “Callan,” she breathed.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and before he released her, she could swear his thumb brushed over her jaw. Still staring at her mouth, he cleared his throat. “Well, there. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

No, she thought with a sense of dread. It wasn’t hard at all. In fact, it was much too easy.

He rose suddenly, still looking at her as he tripped over the leg of her coffee table. “You don’t need to come in to the office this morning. I’ll, ah, meet you at the tavern at one o’clock.”

“But—”

“One o’clock,” he backed toward the front door, then closed it behind him on his way out.

This was a bad idea, she thought and stared at the door. Bad, bad idea. They would never get away with it.

Closing her eyes, she realized that she hadn’t even warned him about her aunts and their…unpredictable behavior. Unless Emerald and Ruby were unusually subdued, which Abby seriously doubted, Callan Sinclair was in for a lunch he’d never forget.

With a gasp she opened her eyes abruptly.

Oh, no.

There was one other little minor detail she’d forgotten to mention. Only it wasn’t exactly minor, and it certainly wasn’t little.

Groaning, she slumped back on the couch and realized the full meaning of jumping from the frying pan into the fire.

“You want me to pretend you’re what?” Standing behind the bar, Reese Sinclair looked up sharply from the beer mug he was busy filling. “To who?”

“Keep it down, will you?” Callan frowned at his brother, then quickly glanced over his shoulder at Abby and her aunts sitting at a table in the middle of the tavern. The lunch crowd was heavy today, and neither Abby nor her aunts had spotted him yet. “Engaged. I want you to pretend I’m engaged. To Abby.”

Beer poured over the sides of the frosty mug in Reese’s hand. He swore, then reached for a towel. “You’re kidding, right? You and…Abby? Since when do you call Abigail Abby?”

He’d decided that if they were going to be “engaged” he should think of her as Abby. “Since this morning.”

“This morning?” Reese raised both brows. “You mean morning, as in, woke up next to her?”

“Something like that.” He’d actually woken up under her, he recalled and remembered the feel of her soft, slender body on top of his. Strange, but he could still feel the warmth of her skin on his chest and the brush of her silky hair against his face.

Reese slung the towel over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes. “She was a little tipsy when she left here with you last night. If you’re trying to string her along to ease a guilty conscience, I’m not having any part of it.”

“Reese, for God’s sake, will you—”

“Abigail’s a nice girl,” Reese went on. “A little dull, maybe, but sweet. I wouldn’t like to think that my own brother took advantage of a kid like that.”

Kid? Abby was no kid, Cal thought, remembering the womanly curves she’d been so insistent on showing him last night. And under different circumstances, with any other woman, he would have been more than eager to see that incredible body. But this was Abby, for God’s sake. He couldn’t think that way about Abby.

“She’s twenty-six, for your information,” Cal said irritably. “And no, I didn’t take advantage of her, you moron. We fell asleep on the couch, with our clothes on, that’s all.”

Well, maybe there was a little more than that, but whatever happened last night was between him and Abby, Callan thought, then glanced over at the table again. As if she knew he was watching her, she slowly looked up and met his gaze.

He felt an odd catch in his throat as he stared back at her. She wore a high-collared gray sweater, and he realized it was the first time he’d seen her without a business suit—well, other than last night, but she had been wearing her suit then, too, or at least most of it. He looked at the oversize sweater she had on, the big, black-rimmed glasses, the tight knot of blond hair at the base of her neck, and he wondered why all this time she’d been hiding behind a facade of plain, when she really wasn’t plain at all. She was actually kind of pretty. More than kind of, he thought. She had really soft, smooth skin, her eyes were an unusual shade of gray-green, and that body, well, hot damn, that body was—

“Cal, hello, anybody home?” Reese waved a hand in front of his face and pulled him out of his illicit thoughts. “What’s the matter with you?”