The Man She'll Marry. Carole Mortimer

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       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘IS YOUR mother at home?’

      Merry stared at the man who stood on the doorstep. She knew she was being rude; her ‘mother’ had taught her all the necessary social niceties. But, looking the way this man did, he had to be used to women staring at him. Dani would have described him as ‘drop-dead gorgeous’, and for the first time Merry understood exactly what she meant by that phrase; this man had to set female hearts pounding, pulses racing, wherever he went!

      ‘Is Dani anything like you?’

      The second question was fired at her before she’d even had chance to formulate an answer to the first one. It had been a long day, and she had only got in a short time ago, though long enough to have quickly changed into an old pair of black denims Dani had outgrown some years before, and a sloppy green jumper that hung loosely down to mid-thigh. Not exactly the height of fashion, but she was comfortable.

      At least she had been, until faced with the elegance of her visitor. This man, well over six feet in height, with his ‘drop-dead gorgeous’ good looks—slightly overlong blond hair, a face that looked hewn from granite, eyes a deep blue, nose long and arrogant, mouth sensual above a squarely challenging jaw—wore his own designer-label clothes with a complete disregard for those labels, or for how well his blue jacket and pale blue shirt emphasised the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist, his blue jeans simply adding to his rugged handsomeness. Dani’s cast-offs, which were slightly too big at that, did not do the same for her own appearance!

      He frowned at her now, although the laughter lines beside his eyes and mouth said he wasn’t always this serious. ‘Is your mother at home?’ he persisted.

      ‘No,’ she answered him honestly, intrigued in spite of herself. Oh, not by his looks; good looks alone had never impressed her. Well, only the once. And she had learnt bitterly from the experience. No, what intrigued her about this particular man was that he obviously knew of Dani but he had no idea what Dani actually looked like . . .!

      Because Dani was nothing like Merry. Her own long hair was dark, almost black, whereas Dani’s was a riot of blonde curls, and Dani’s eyes were brown, whereas her own were green, and Dani, at eighteen, was much taller than her own five foot nothing. So who was this man? He knew of Dani, but nothing else about her—except her address...

      He gave an impatient sigh. ‘I don’t suppose your sister is here, either? No.’ He answered his own question. ‘David said they were going to some coffee shop or other this evening. Damn,’ he muttered, looking thoughtful. ‘I don’t suppose I could come in and wait, could I?’ His imperious tone of voice totally belied the request that his words should have been.

      A man used to getting his own way, Merry surmised ruefully. Probably in his late thirties, and with no ring on his left hand to say whether or not he was married. The fact that he wasn’t wearing a ring said he would do as he damn well pleased, not that he wasn’t actually married. Everything about this man quietly cried self-assurance and determination.

      ‘No, I don’t suppose you could,’ she answered dryly.

      Blond brows rose over those deep blue eyes, his mouth quirking wryly. ‘Well, at least one of the family seems to have some sense!’ he allowed.

      She remembered again that it had been a long day and she had only been home from work for a short time; what she really wanted right now was to sit down with a glass of cooled white wine and simply unwind before thinking about preparing dinner. Her unexpected guest did not fit in with those plans at all. Besides, exactly what did he want to come in and wait for?

      ‘One of the family?’ she echoed smoothly, the mildness of her tone totally masking her impatience.

      He nodded. ‘You and Dani. You are obviously the elder—’

      ‘Obviously,’ she acknowledged crisply. Why state the obvious?

      He gave her a sharp look, visibly making an effort to relax. ‘I didn’t mean to sound insulting, Miss Baker—’

      ‘You may not have meant to, Mr...?’ She paused pointedly; he knew her name while she had absolutely no idea what his might be.

      ‘Kingston,’ СКАЧАТЬ