Husband For Hire. Susan Wiggs

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      The auctioneer gave a rundown of Rob’s bio, making him sound a lot more interesting than he was, eliciting oohs and aahs at his achievements in sports and academics. He’d filled his bachelor questionnaire with facts about his pathology lab, but they hadn’t used any of it. Apparently isolating lethal viruses and staving off epidemics wasn’t considered “sexy.”

      “And here’s a little something extra, ladies,” the auctioneer said. “He’s got the soul of a poet.”

      Rob frowned. Where had that come from?

      The auctioneer took out a yellowed piece of wide-ruled writing paper. Rob craned his neck to see. The page was covered in painstakingly neat penciled lettering, and at the top, a gold foil star gleamed. “This was provided by Mrs. Theda Duckworth, former third-grade teacher of Lander Elementary.”

      Rob’s mind careered back through the years. He remembered Mrs. Duckworth as stern, down-to-earth, loving. Big on penmanship. But he couldn’t for the life of him recall anything he had written for her.

      “It’s something Rob wrote when he was just knee-high to a grasshopper, and here’s what that boy had to say. ‘When I grow up I want to be someone’s daddy. I’m told this is not hard to do, but I don’t know for sure.”’

      A ripple of amusement swept the audience. Rob’s grin froze. If this sort of thing was supposed to up the stakes, they were nuts. Who wanted to hear the naive ramblings of a nine-year-old kid?

      “‘The father in the family fixes things,”’ the auctioneer continued. “‘Mostly the car, but stuff in the yard and the house, too. Every father is real strong. But it takes a mother and the kids to make him into a father. This is something I better think on a lot more.”’

      The women in the bleachers laughed and clapped and “awwwed” at the nauseatingly cute story. Rob tried not to let his chagrin show. He tried to appear relaxed and friendly as the auctioneer opened the bidding.

      “Who’ll give five hundred dollars for this fine specimen of a man?”

      A hand shot up in the bleachers.

      “Five hundred dollars, I have five. Who’ll bid six?”

      Jeez, Rob thought as the auctioneer droned on. Hadn’t slave auctions been outlawed by Lincoln?

      More hands flashed up so quickly he couldn’t tell who was bidding. The bids climbed fast and steep, the women laughing and hollering as they egged one another on.

      “Twelve hundred dollars! Do I hear thirteen?”

      Rob broke out in a sweat.

      His attention darted from one bidder to the next. The denim-shirt girl. The big-hair lady. The mom with two kids. The pregnant woman. A New York-type all in black. The lizard-boots-and-Rolex-watch woman. The silver-haired old lady. Damn, old lady?

      Rob wished for a beer. Bad.

      The money soared to unreal heights. Nine thousand, ten, twelve. Rex and Lindsay sure knew some freewheeling folks. Denim Shirt kept outbidding Big Hair. One of the Fremonts made a bid. Then there was a lightning exchange between Lizard Boots and Silver Hair.

      Rob wondered if praying would help. He caught himself glancing, somewhat desperately, in Twyla’s direction. He found no sympathy there. She rolled her eyes and laughed at the whole idiotic thing. But it calmed him, somehow, catching her eye. She was like a serene center of sanity in the midst of madness. But she kept laughing at him.

      “Going once, going twice, going three times…sold,” the auctioneer barked, “to Sugar Spinelli, right there in the front row!”

      Twyla McCabe, who had been laughing, staggered back against her folding table and clapped her hand over her mouth. Even from a distance, Rob could see her face go pale.

      His jaw dropped as the winning bidder gave a shout of victory. Thunderous applause sounded. The bidder and her friend stood up and hugged each other. Spangled jogging suits—one pink, one lavender—flashed in the sunlight.

      Rob blinked with disbelief. In his wildest dreams, he hadn’t expected this. The highest bidder for his charms…was a gray-haired grandma.

      CHAPTER FIVE

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

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

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

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

      “My part, anyway.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Sugar Spinelli?”

      “You know her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Please. It’s Rob.”

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

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

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