Cherry Adair - Slow Burn - Seducing Mr. Right / Take Me

He felt sick. “Do you want him to marry you, or do you want me to punch him out?”

Cat looked at him blankly. “Marry? Punch? Who?”

“Cat, for God’s sake! The man who got you pregnant!”

She stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. “I’m a virgin, Luke.”

“Well, hell, what does that have to do with anyth—What?”

“Virgin? Unmarried woman? Untouched? Pure?”

“Jesus.” His breath gusted out, and it took several moments to get his heartbeat back to comfortable. He scraped his fingers through his hair, feeling ridiculously as if he’d stood perilously close to the edge of an abyss and survived. “Sorry, I tend to get a little carried away,” he admitted gruffly.

“I’ve noticed.” Cat’s voice was dry. Her mouth wore a small, tentative smile, but her eyes still looked as if she were about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. He’d anticipated the worst and rallied. Relaxing, he leaned back in his chair.

“What do you need help with? Want to come and work out of our office? No problem, I told you we’ll find a spot for you—”

She watched him with big, serious eyes. “I don’t want you to find me office space, Luke. I want you to find me a husband.”

CHAPTER TWO

“WELL, SAY SOMETHING.” Catherine tried not to let her nerves show as he sat there gaping.

Even while she’d agonized over doing this, she’d hoped she’d have to go no further than to ask Luke for his help. It would have made life a whole bunch easier if he’d just cut to the chase and declared his undying love for her at the onset.

The Plan hadn’t gotten much beyond that. She wanted more, but with Luke’s attitude toward permanence, she was realistic enough to know she wasn’t going to get it.

Her biggest leap of faith had been to burn her bridges, and take the chance that he wouldn’t reject her outright. Again.

Ten years was a long time, she kept reminding herself. They’d both grown up since. She wasn’t that naive, impulsive kid anymore. She knew Luke better now. For her plan to work, this seduction was going to have to be his idea. Unfortunately, he was still staring at her, slack-jawed.

“Well?” she said with a shaky breath. “Say something.”

“I’m speechless.”

“Could you hurry up and get over it?” Catherine pulled a yellow scratch pad and a pen out of the canvas bag she’d slung over the finial of her chair earlier. She concentrated on writing “Prospective Husbands” at the top of the page in neat block letters, more to give Luke time to assimilate what she’d said than the need to make a list. She glanced up. His eyes were squinty.

“What?” she asked innocently.

“What do you mean, you want me to find you a husband? You have a phobic aversion to marriage!”

“No. That’s you.” Keep it casual, Catherine. “I have a phobic aversion to my mother’s marriages. What if poor marital judgment is hereditary? My apple might have fallen closer to my mother’s tree than I’d like. I just don’t trust my own judgment.”

“And you’d trust mine? I don’t believe in marriage, remember?”

How could she forget? “You’ll meet someone someday.”

“No,” he said unequivocally. “I won’t. And frankly, Cat, considering we’ve both seen your mother in action, I’m surprised that you’d want to make the same mistakes.”

“With your help, I won’t.”

“I don’t get it. Why?”

“Because I need someone to take care of, Luke. After Dad died I realized I liked taking care of someone. I love being a homemaker. I know it’s politically incorrect not to want a career, but I don’t. I enjoy trading stocks on the market, and as long as I have my computer and a phone line, I can do that anywhere. But if I had to stop that tomorrow, I wouldn’t care. I guess I’m a throwback, what can I say? I want a husband to love, and to be loved by. Eventually kids. I want a couple of dogs, and a house with a big yard. Is that too much to ask—where are you going?”

“To make more hot chocolate.”

“There’s still some. Here.” She handed him her mug and waited while he poured hot chocolate haphazardly from the pan. Catherine observed the motion of muscles flexing beneath his green sweater. She drew in a deep breath, then held it until her stomach behaved itself. Luke had never made any bones about his intention to remain a bachelor. She remembered him telling her just that, right after his own mother remarried for the third time. Luke didn’t believe in promises any more than Catherine did. The difference was she was willing to take the chance. Luke wasn’t.

He yanked open a cabinet and grabbed a bottle of something hideously expensive, using more force than necessary. She perked up. Wrenching the cap off, he sloshed liquor into his mug, then slammed the bottle onto the black granite countertop. Even better.

“Are we celebrating?” she asked as he placed both mugs on the table. She plucked napkins out of the holder to mop up the chocolate milk he’d sloshed onto the tabletop.

“What do you think, Catherine?” He strode back to retrieve the liquor bottle, which he slam-dunked onto the table between them. Then, scowling, he threw himself into his chair and raked his fingers through his hair until it stood up like a shark fin.

“Well, I think a celebration is a little premature right now...but sure.” She reached out to take the bottle. Luke removed it gently from her grasp. Which was fine with her. If it tasted anything like it smelled, she’d gag. Come on, Luke, she silently urged, let’s hear it.

“Are you out of your mind, Cat?” A vein throbbed in his temple. His eyes had turned a smoky green. “If you have this burning need to take care of something, get a poodle.”

“Not quite the same thing, Luke.”

Even with that look of total exasperation on his face he was the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Too sexy for plain Catherine Harris. But she wanted him anyway. Her and about a billion other women. Luke Van Buren was Mr. Confirmed Bachelor Playboy himself. He’d never had to look for female companionship. Anything female would spot him from a hundred feet away and be charmed. He loved women. He treated his girlfriends with care and consideration, and adored them.

As long as he was with them.

Lucas Van Buren epitomized the expression “out of sight, out of mind.” Over the years she’d witnessed the ebb and flow of Luke’s lady friends. None of the relationships lasted very long. Which didn’t bode well for her own future. But if she didn’t try, how would she ever know?

Luke was a freewheeling playboy. She valued security and stability above all else. He was a daredevil who considered variety the spice of life. She wanted marriage. He wanted affairs.

She wanted him. He didn’t want her.

When she’d first decided to come to San Francisco she’d considered asking Luke to find her a lover, not a husband. Since he wasn’t husband material, that would have been closer to the truth. But she’d immediately dismissed that idea. Luke would have choked out a resounding and unequivocal “N.O.”

“Did being stuck in that house with just Dad for company turn your gray matter into oatmeal?”

“Not that I know of. Look, this is quite simple, Luke. You must know a gazillion single guys. Lots of cultures have marriage brokers. Which, if you think about it, makes perfect sense. Look at the divorce rate when people find mates by random selection. It’s up to sixty percent. Our mothers probably had a lot to do with that figure rising.”

He splashed more amber liquid into his mug. His knuckles glowed white where he gripped the bottle. He hadn’t said a word in minutes.

“You’re intelligent. You know me, you care about me. You’ll make a perfect marriage broker. Pick a few friends you think would make good husband material and I’ll do the rest.”