Rebecca Winters: Husband Potential

Fran stared straight ahead. “I don’t accept invitations from virtual strangers.”

“We’re hardly strangers.”

Her head swung around in reaction. The banked fire in Andre’s eyes excited and frightened her at the same time. “You are to me.” Her voice trembled.

“Surely the news that I’m a mere man who finds himself attracted to you should come as a relief. Now you don’t have to feel guilty that you’ve been tempting me beyond my endurance.”

“You’re wrong, Mr. Benet! If anything, your confession makes you more suspect than ever!”

“I didn’t start out with the intention of lying to you. I didn’t want to feel an attachment to you so I perpetuated this myth, and then tried to forget you. But that immediate attraction has never gone away. Now I want to explore what there could be between us—because I know you feel that attraction, too.”

Rebecca Winters, a mother of four, is a graduate of the University of Utah. She has won the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award and been named Utah Writer of the Year.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

FROM THE STEPS of the Trappist monastery on the hillside, Fran Mallory could see out over the entire Salt Lake Valley. At seven in the morning, the sun had barely come up over the mountains behind the sandy rock-faced edifice.

Dew still bathed the freshly mown grass on this glorious late April morning. A feeling of peace pervaded the grounds covered in acres of clover and flowering trees.

All this and more she’d been cataloguing with her camera as the delicious perfume of fruit blossoms acted like an aphrodisiac on her senses. She stood gazing at the clouds which moved across a brilliant blue sky like huge, fat white pillows piled as high as the eye could see.

Living by the dictates of a hectic agenda, she wished there were some way to store this moment as she would a piece of information on her computer, then come back to this exact spot with a click of the mouse whenever she needed to regroup and get in touch with her real self, whatever that was….

So far, she had no idea. Fran only knew that at rare times like this, her soul yearned inexplicably for something she couldn’t put a name to.

As she stood there musing, the haunting sound of the monks singing Gregorian chant permeated the outside walls of the chapel. The beautiful male voices came from those celibate men who were dedicated to a higher cause in the service of God.

She couldn’t fathom men who denied themselves their earthly passions in order to show their devotion.

On the other hand, her own selfish father hadn’t been able to control his passions. After being unfaithful to her mother with more than one woman, he’d left the state never to be seen or heard from again.

Fran wasn’t the only girl among her group of friends whose family had known tragedy. Marsha Hume’s father was serving time in prison because it was discovered he’d been married to two women at the same time living in separate towns.

Fran hadn’t been able to fathom that either. Nor could she countenance that several male students in her classes at the university turned out to be married men who’d come on to her while they’d been studying, actually believing she might be interested. Revolted and disillusioned, Fran found her distrust of men in general was growing.

If God had wanted man and woman to be married and cling happily together as one flesh forever, she didn’t see it happening in the world she inhabited. Grudgingly she admitted there were a few exceptions. Her uncle and her pastor—and a couple of men at her work.

The monks she could hear singing could be added to the list. She supposed they were honorable men, although she put them in another classification of human being altogether.

She would sell her soul for one good man, but after twenty-eight years, she despaired of ever finding him. Tossing her head with its silvery-gold mane, she opened the heavy door, anxious to put aside any irritating thoughts on such a lovely day.

The chapel foyer appeared to be deserted. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was far too early in the day for visitors or tourists.

A sign indicated that guests should go upstairs to observe the mass. Another sign pointed to the gift shop on her right. Paul had said the Abbot would meet her in there for the initial interview. Depending on the outcome and his willingness, she might get some inside shots as well.

As Fran opened the gift shop door, her breath caught in her throat. After everything Paul had told her, she had been prepared to greet a man in his seventies.

The tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven monk behind the counter had to be in his midthirties. He was dressed in the same kind of brown work shirt and trousers she’d seen the monks wearing out in the orchards. Despite his attire, he had a princely bearing.

At her entry, he stopped stacking jars and flicked his dark, piercing gaze to hers. His intelligent eyes looked black but were probably brown. The dim light in the shop obscured details. After an unnerving silence she heard him murmur, “May I help you?”

This monk spoke in a deep, rich masculine tone, unaccountably stirring her senses.

“I’m Ms. Mallory from Beehive Magazine. The Abbot made arrangements to let someone from our magazine interview him for an article we want to run in the July issue. I was told to meet him here at seven.”

“I’m afraid Father Ambrose is unwell this morning. He hopes you will forgive him for the inconvenience and make another appointment.”

He went on filling the rest of the shelves with the kinds of jars of honey and jams she’d occasionally purchased here in past years.

“Of course.”

Fran had never been this totally ignored before, but then again, she’d never come face-to-face with a Trappist monk either.

“Do I make it through you?”

He lifted his well-shaped head and stared at her, his eyes narrowing as if he were not pleased with the question.

“No. Phone him in a week. He should be better by then.”

“I hope it’s not serious.”

“I shouldn’t think so.” He turned his back on her, no doubt signaling that this meeting had come to an end. Oddly enough she didn’t want to go. The monks fascinated her, especially this one. His short-cropped hair looked boyish from the back. She tried to imagine him in jeans and T-shirt, his hair a normal length.

“I thought Trappist monks took vows of silence, the Abbot being the exception to handle the public, of course. Why is it that you can talk to me?”