Carol Finch - Mr. Predictable - Mr. Predictable / Too Many Cooks

Two brand-new stories in every volume…twice a month!

Duets Vol. #61

Little wonder veteran Duets author Kristin Gabriel has received two RITA Awards from the Romance Writers of America for her fabulous, funny stories. This month she delivers a delightful duo—the Kane brothers and their adventures on the path to true love. Enjoy!

Duets Vol. #62

Voted Storyteller of the Year twice by Romantic Times, Silhouette writer Carol Finch always “presents her fans with rollicking, wild adventures…and fun from beginning to end.” Making her Duets debut this month is talented newcomer Molly O’Keefe with a fun story about the matchmaking Cook family—and what can happen when there are too many Cooks…!

Be sure to pick up both Duets volumes today!

Mr. Predictable

Carol Finch

Too Many Cooks

Molly O’Keefe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Mr. Predictable Mr. Predictable

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Too Many Cooks

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

“Our next hurdle is to get you to do something impulsive, something totally unplanned, unexpected and off schedule.”

“Hey, I can be impulsive if I feel like it,” Jake said, affronted.

“Couldn’t prove it by me, Mr. Predictable,” she teased him. “When was the last time you hauled off and did something totally out of character?”

He frowned pensively.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Don’t rush me. I’m thinking.”

“That’s your problem.”

He suddenly grinned. “You want impulsive do you?”

He leaned over, snatched Moriah off her horse and planted a kiss on her. It wasn’t just a playful little peck on the cheek, either. It was a hot, steamy, burn-off-your-lips kind of kiss that demanded a response.

It was the most spontaneous thing Jake had ever done, and he liked it. A lot…

Dear Reader,

I’m delighted to be writing my third book for Duets, because I love romantic comedy! In this story you will meet a serious-minded workaholic who clashes with the fun-loving owner of a resort for stressed-out businessmen.

J. T. Prescott doesn’t believe for one minute that he needs these two weeks of recreational therapy that his sisters arranged for him, and he stubbornly resists Moriah Randell’s attempt to change his attitude, his unwavering routine and his lifestyle. This battle of wills becomes far more personal and complicated when their attraction to each other refuses to be ignored or denied. When unexpected emotions sneak up on J.T. and Moriah, they can’t imagine what has hit them so hard and so fast…and just won’t go away!

Enjoy,

Carol Finch

HARLEQUIN DUETS

36—FIT TO BE TIED

42—A REGULAR JOE

SILHOUETTE SPECIAL EDITION

1242—NOT JUST ANOTHER COWBOY

1320—SOUL MATES

This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed, and our children—Jon, Jeff, Kurt, Christie and Jill. And to our grandchildren, Blake, Kennedy and Brooklynn. Hugs and kisses!

And a very special thank-you to my editor, Priscilla Berthiaume, and my agent, Laurie Feigenbaum, for all your help and support. You are greatly appreciated!

JACOB THOMAS PRESCOTT squeezed his eyes shut to relieve the strain of staring at the computer screen for ten hours straight. Of course, that was nothing new, he reminded himself as he massaged his temples to ease the headache pounding in rhythm with his pulse. This, after all, was life as he knew it. Work. And more work. It’s what he did six days a week—and sometimes on Sunday.

J.T.—as his three employees at his graphic shop and his sisters knew him—checked his watch. Six o’clock, right on the button. With robotlike precision, J.T. saved the file and transferred it to floppy disk so he could work on his laptop computer over the weekend.

When he shut down the computer, J.T. pushed away from his desk and worked the kinks from his neck and shoulders. He glanced sideways to note that his three younger male employees had already called it quits for the day and that they were smiling at him for no apparent reason.

“Is there a problem?” he asked as he surged to his feet.

“No,” the young men chorused, still smiling enigmatically. “Have a nice weekend, boss.”

J.T. nodded, then waited for the men to precede him out the door. He grabbed the plastic bag of clothes he planned to drop off at the dry cleaners, checked his watch again and then locked the door behind him.

Right on time, as usual, he noted as he stuffed the shop keys in the pocket of his black suit. He would swing by the cleaners at 6:11 p.m., just as he did every Friday, then drive to his apartment to pop in a microwaveable turkey-and-dressing TV dinner.

J.T. skidded to a halt on the sidewalk and his eyes popped when he noticed the two flat tires on the driver’s side of his older-model gray sedan. “Well, damn,” he muttered. This was going to throw off his regular routine by a half hour—maybe more.

Scowling at the inconvenience, J.T. looked up and down the deserted street, then frowned as the fire-engine red Jeep Cherokee—that seemed to come from out of nowhere at lightning speed—ground to a stop beside him. To his surprise, a smiling blue-eyed blonde, wearing a bright blue T-shirt that was plastered with stars and stripes, a pair of screaming red shorts and hiking boots, bounded from the vehicle like a jack-in-the-box.

“Is this your car?” she asked all too cheerfully for J.T.’s sedate tastes.

He appraised the female who looked to be in her mid-twenties. He wasn’t sure if he should salute this personification of the American flag or answer her. He decided on the latter. “Er…yes, it’s my car,” he mumbled, focusing on the flat tires rather than the woman’s flashy appearance and blinding smile. Flamboyantly dressed blondes with one-hundred-watt smiles and more energy than they knew what to do with didn’t appeal to him—and for good reason.

“I’ll give you a lift to the service station,” she offered, then stuck out her hand to introduce herself. “I’m Moriah Randell.”

Again, J.T. felt the ridiculous urge to salute. Instead, he shook her hand, marveling at her decisive grip. But then, he mused, her firm handshake really shouldn’t surprise him. Bubbling spirit, vitality and independence—hence her American flag ensemble—fairly crackled around her. She was about as easy to ignore as a hurricane or earthquake, and she came on so strong that J.T. reflexively withdrew into his own space.

“I’m J. T. Prescott,” he murmured as he resituated the pile of laundry, briefcase and laptop in both arms.

“Here, let me help you with that stuff,” she volunteered.

Before J.T. could accept or reject her offer, Moriah scooped up his precious possessions.

A most peculiar sensation assailed him when Moriah confiscated his laptop and briefcase. It was as if she had suddenly amputated extensions of his hands. She juggled the objects as if they were insignificant pieces of junk and that didn’t set well with J.T. “Hey, be careful with that stuff,” he cautioned as she strode quickly around the side of her SUV. “Those happen to be my stock-in-trade—” His voice fizzled into a groan when she unceremoniously dumped both prized possessions on the back seat.