One-Night Man. Jeanie London

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      Auntie Q studied the photos, a respectable assortment of candid gazes, carved jaws and arresting smiles. “Any thoughts on whom you’ll bid for?”

      Oh, she’d had thoughts all right. Lennon took a deep breath and waited until her great-aunt had turned her assessing gaze back before admitting, “Actually, I’ve been giving the bidding a lot of thought. Not only will the auction raise funds for the collection, but it’s an opportunity to find Mr. Right.”

      Auntie Q’s face suddenly became wreathed in smiles and excitement. “Mr. Right, Lennon? Really? Are you finally going to allow yourself to fall in love?”

      Lennon nodded. “I’ll be thirty in May. I’ve finished college, traveled the Continent with Mother and established my writing career. It’s time to settle down.”

      “Are you talking about marriage?”

      “Yes.”

      “Marriage would be delightful, but don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself? Shouldn’t you be in love with a man before deciding to marry him?”

      “That’s where the auction comes in.” Taking a deep breath, Lennon chose her words carefully. “These are the most eligible bachelors around. They’re all reputable, self-made men, from the best families. Where better to find a husband?”

      That laser-blue gaze narrowed. “And where does love fit in?”

      Lennon faced her great-aunt squarely. “My definition of love differs from yours a bit, Auntie. To me, love doesn’t necessarily include what you always call ‘grand passion.’”

      It definitely didn’t include grand passion.

      “You’re a McDarby,” Auntie Q said. “Passion is our special gift. It’s what we live for. You’re just a late bloomer.”

      “I’m not a late bloomer. I do passion. I’m a romance writer, for goodness sake.”

      Auntie Q shook her head, as though shaking loose whatever might be obstructing her hearing, since she clearly didn’t think she’d heard Lennon right. “You do passion on a computer, not in real life. When was the last time you went on a date?”

      Lennon dragged her memory for a recent date to prove her point. Wow, had it really been that long? Apparently so, judging by her great-aunt’s smug expression.

      “Okay, so it’s been a while,” she admitted. “But I signed a three-book contract and haven’t had time to do anything but write. It was a career opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

      “A while, indeed. You haven’t dated since before your book contract, since that handsome young man who handled promotion for the Saints. What was his name, Craig…Cliff—”

      “Clint.”

      “Clint, that’s right. He had a promising future, dear.”

      A very promising future that involved delicious sex and equally delicious memories. Clint had been whirlwind romance material, not marriage material. There was a big difference. By the time she and Clint had parted ways, Lennon had needed a vacation to convalesce.

      “Romance heroes are for affairs and books,” she explained. “Nice stable men are for marriage.”

      Auntie Q blinked. “Are you saying you don’t marry heroes?”

      “I want to marry a man I like, a man I respect and will still respect through all the ups and downs of marriage and rearing children.”

      “And you don’t think you can respect a man you can love?”

      “No, no,” Lennon said with a huff of exasperation. “It’s not that I can’t respect a man I love, it’s just that I want a solid, stable…comfortable marriage. I want to love my husband. And not that ‘grand passion’ kind of love, but the caring, companionable kind. The minute passion gets involved, love becomes an emotional roller coaster.”

      “Emotional roller coaster?” Now it was Auntie Q’s turn to huff. “Of course it’s an emotional roller coaster. That’s the beauty—the excitement, the anticipation, the joie de vivre. It makes life worth living.”

      “Passion makes affairs worth living. And affairs are wonderful, but I need a rest afterward.” Lennon spread her hands in entreaty. “You know as well as I do that the minute a man knows a woman is in love with him, he’s got the upper hand. He makes her crazy just because he can.”

      “But it’s the best kind of crazy, dear. It’s a feeling of being alive, of being cherished—”

      “I don’t want to marry a man who’ll drive me nuts. I want a husband who’ll be my partner and stick by my side no matter what life offers. I don’t want one who’ll consume my thoughts every single minute and distract me from everything else….”

      Lennon lost her steam when she saw Auntie Q goggling like a pixie who’d been zapped by a lightning bolt. Apparently the thought of separating love and passion hadn’t occurred to her.

      But Auntie Q had a mind as sharp as a Cajun spice. Understanding quickly dawned upon her, revealed in her impish features, and she cut a gaze back to the portrait inside the entrance hall. “Give me strength, Joshua, please.”

      After fifty-five years of discussing all aspects of her life with Great-uncle Joshua, Auntie Q hadn’t been able to break the habit after his death. She still talked to him whenever she felt the need, no matter where she was or whom she was with. Lennon wondered if he ever answered her.

      She couldn’t hear a thing but the drone of the museum’s climate control system as it cycled on, which was truly a shame. She could have used an advocate about now.

      Taking her great-aunt’s thin hands in her own, she gazed down into that dear old face, needing Auntie Q to understand. Her great-aunt had been the mainstay of Lennon’s life, the doting darling who’d pinch-hitted for Lennon’s mother, who’d devoted her own life to chasing her Mr. Rights.

      As usual, Mother was nowhere to be found to act as an advocate when Lennon needed one. She was currently residing in Monte Carlo chasing Mr. Right number forty-two.

      But Lennon had long ago learned to make her own decisions, because sometimes her mother’s affairs d’amour had easily accommodated a child in tow, at other times not. During those times Auntie Q had always stepped in, bringing Lennon back to the huge family house in the New Orleans Garden District.

      By the time Lennon had been ten, jet-setting around the globe for her mother’s wild affairs had lost its appeal. She’d longed for the stability of a home, a school and friends of her own, and the enduring love of her kind and fun Auntie Q.

      Mother hadn’t argued when Lennon had asked to stay in New Orleans. She hadn’t asked Auntie Q if it was okay, either. She’d just kissed their cheeks on the veranda and departed with a breezy, “Call me when you’re ready to come home.”

      Twenty years had passed and Lennon still hadn’t called. Neither had Auntie Q. And never once had her great-aunt ever seemed to mind the lifestyle adjustments that assuming the responsibilities of a child had entailed. She’d been the most loving of surrogate parents, and Lennon wanted her approval.

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