Temporary Bride Read online

  Temporary Bride

  By

  Phyllis Halldorson

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  "Why Do You Want to Marry Me, Karen?"

  Something in Shane's voice warned her against telling him the truth. She knew he would send her away if she told him that she loved him. Shane didn't want love; all he wanted was passion — and a son.

  "I'm not sure, Shane." Her voice was brittle. "Maybe I like the idea of lifelong financial security."

  She felt him stiffen and saw the anger in his eyes. "So, my little child-woman is mercenary after all. Well, if you want to sell yourself to me I don't see why I shouldn't take advantage of it. Certainly I'll marry you, Karen — for a while."

  PHYLLIS HALLDORSON like all her heroines, is as in love with her husband today as on the day they met. It is because she has known so much love in her own life that her characters seem to come alive as they, too, discover the joys of romance.

  Dear Reader,

  Silhouette Romances is an exciting new publishing series, dedicated to bringing you the very best in contemporary romantic fiction from the very finest writers. Our stories and our heroines will give you all you want from romantic fiction.

  Also, you play an important part in our future plans for Silhouette Romances. We welcome any suggestions or comments on our books, which should be sent to the address below.

  So enjoy this book and all the wonderful romances from Silhouette. They're for you!

  Silhouette Books

  Editorial Office

  47 Bedford Square

  LONDON

  WC1B 3DP

  Copyright © 1980 by Phyllis Halldorson

  First printing 1981

  ISBN 0-340-26580-9

  Chapter One

  Karen's stomach churned as she sat in the plush outer office thumbing through a copy of a slick picture magazine while waiting to be called into the inner sanctum by the sleek, efficient receptionist. Three girls had already been ushered in ahead of her and she was afraid that if she had to wait much longer she'd be sick. The suspense was made even more unbearable by the fact that she didn't have the slightest idea who was behind that office door or what he wanted from the woman he selected. She had answered a blind ad in the newspaper:

  Woman wanted. Age 21-30. No family ties. Must be free to relocate. No skills necessary.

  The only address had been a box number.

  Karen knew it was dangerous to answer an ad like that, but she was desperate. It had taken all her parents' savings and much more to pay the astronomical medical expenses before her mother died of a lingering illness. Then, just a year later, after her father had finally paid off all personal debts, he collapsed one morning and died of a heart attack, leaving Karen, at eighteen, with a heavily mortgaged house and not even enough money for the next payment. She'd taken college prep courses in high school that had left her eminently qualified for the college of her choice but untrained in any skill necessary to support herself. She had no close relatives and her pride would not allow her to confide her poverty to family friends, all college instructors like her parents.

  Karen had seen the ad in a San Francisco paper and, after long deliberation, had answered it. The problem was her age. The ad said twenty-one and she was only eighteen. It had been easy to lie on paper but now she was to be interviewed in person. She wasn't sure they'd believe she was eighteen, much less twenty-one. She stood four feet eleven inches and weighed ninety pounds on her heavier days. Most of her clothes were bought in the children's department and she usually looked about fourteen.

  Another girl came out of the office and this time the receptionist called, "Karen Muir."

  The knot in Karen's stomach tightened as she stood and walked across the room on the three-inch cork platform shoes she had been lucky enough to find at a sample shoe sale. She had pulled her long chestnut hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck and worn the dark, simply cut dress she had chosen for her father's funeral. She crossed her fingers and murmured a silent prayer as she stepped into the private office.

  The blond young man behind the desk stood as the receptionist introduced Karen and said, "I'm Mark Jefferson, Miss Muir. Won't you sit down?" He indicated a chair.

  Karen was aware of his blue eyes discreetly taking in every detail of her small but compact body as she settled herself. The palms of her hands were sweaty and she clutched them together as she sat back and crossed her shapely legs in what she hoped was a nonchalant gesture.

  The office was small but luxuriously furnished and had a spectacular view of the bay. She breathed a little easier. If this company, whatever it was, operated from this office, it must be solvent, at least. Hopefully it was also respectable. Mark Jefferson was smiling at her and his voice was friendly as he said, "I see by your application that you are twenty-one, but you've listed no previous work experience. What have you been doing since you graduated from high school, Miss Muir?"

  She took a deep breath and plunged into the story she had rehearsed. "My—my father died very recently, but until then I was his research assistant. He was writing a textbook."

  Actually it was true. She had helped her father with research for his book, but she'd also been going to high school at the time.

  "And your mother?" Mark prodded.

  Karen lowered her eyes. "Mother died a year ago. I was an only child, so now I'm all alone. I'm free to travel, if that's what you want."

  He nodded. "May I ask if your parents left you well fixed financially?"

  She didn't really see why that was any of his business, but maybe it would help if he knew she needed the job. She shook her head and there was a catch in her voice as she answered. "No. My mother was in and out of the hospital for years before she died and Dad had to borrow heavily. It was probably the strain of trying to pay back the debts that brought on his fatal heart attack. I was left with nothing and I need this job desperately."

  She hated to beg, but she was terrified of what would happen to her if she had to compete in the job market with no training and no experience.

  He wrote something on a pad of paper, then stood and said, "Thank you for coming, Miss Muir. You'll hear from us before the end of the week."

  So Karen headed her compact car away from the congested streets of San Francisco to the small city in the valley that ran between the majestic Sierra Nevada mountains on the east and the Coast mountain range on the west and settled down to wait. By Friday she was a bundle of nerves and could no longer stand the four walls that closed her in as she paced around the house waiting for the postman to come or the phone to ring. She had to get outside, and besides, there was plenty to be done in the spacious flower gardens that had been her father's pride and joy.

  She pulled on her blue jeans and striped pullover shirt, parted her gently curling hair down the middle and tied it back on either side with lengths of scarlet yarn, then resurrected an old pair of tennis shoes already stained with mud. The July sun shone relentlessly on the valley and as Karen crouched down weeding the garden, her face grew shiny with perspiration.

  By noon the muscles in her back, shoulders, and legs ached and she was aware of a tormenting thirst. She finished with the bed of petunias and stood, wiping her hands on her already dirty jeans, and walked across the patio into the house through the sliding glass doors. As she stepped into the living room she heard the doorbell. With an impatient gesture she hurried to the front door and opened it.

  The man standing there was a stranger—she was sure
of that. She could never have forgotten him if she'd ever met him before! He looked to be in his early thirties—not exactly handsome, but his features blended well together and were framed by jet black hair. There were lines of tension around his firm mouth and the square cut of his jaw indicated a stubborn insistence on getting what he wanted. He towered above Karen. The brown business suit he was wearing was expertly tailored to fit across his wide shoulders and tapered to his slim waist and hips. The legs of his trousers molded around powerful thighs and Karen swallowed as she looked quickly back up to his face. His deep brown eyes held little warmth, although he smiled as he said, "Is this the Muir home?"

  She nodded, quite unable to find her voice. She noticed another man coming up the walk as the first one continued. "Is your sister, Karen, at home?"

  Karen blinked and answered, "I'm Karen Muir."

  The first man stared and the second man, who by now was standing behind the first, gasped, "Karen!"

  She recognized Mark Jefferson, the man who had interviewed her for the job! Oh, no! He'd caught her looking like a twelve-year-old tomboy who had been playing in the dirt!

  She murmured an embarrassed greeting and invited the two men inside. The stranger looked grim as he snapped at Mark, "Is this your idea of a joke?"

  Mark cringed. "So help me, Shane, she said she was twenty-one and she looked a lot different the other day."

  The man called Shane turned to her. "Just how old are you, young lady?"

  She shrank from the fury of his gaze as she stammered, "Eight-eighteen."

  His eyes traveled up and down her tiny length as he snorted. "I don't believe you. If you're a day over fifteen I'll be surprised. Why on earth did you answer that ad? And where are your parents? I intend to see that they give you the paddling you so richly deserve!"

  Karen had been taken by surprise and the guilty knowledge of her deception had allowed her to be intimidated, but now a slow anger was creeping through her and she pulled herself up to her full four feet, eleven inches as she glared back.

  "Now just a minute! I don't know you and I've only met Mr. Jefferson once. What gives you the right to come to my home uninvited and unexpected and make threats? I can prove I'm eighteen years old and that my parents are dead. The only thing I lied about was my age, and I'm sorry about that, but it doesn't give you the right—"

  She was working up a good head of steam when Mark cut in. "Hey, knock it off, both of you! Can't we talk about this in a reasonably businesslike way? Karen, this is Shane McKittrick, the man you would be—uh—working for. You're right, we had no business coming here without calling first, but Shane wanted to see you in the natural setting of your own home."

  "It's a good thing I did, too," Shane snarled angrily. "Otherwise this blockhead might have made the mistake of hiring you." They were standing in the entrance way and he looked at Mark as he turned toward the door. "Come on, it's a long drive back to San Francisco."

  Mark reached out and grabbed Shane by the arm. "Calm down, will you! I told you, Karen is the only one who met all your qualifications. I'm sorry she's younger than we thought but does age really make so much difference?"

  "I might have considered a twenty-year-old," Shane grated, "but this one is nothing but a baby herself! You know as well as I do that she's impossible!"

  Karen felt like a slave being auctioned off on the block. Besides, her throat was so parched it felt like sandpaper, and she'd lost her chance at the job—whatever it was—anyway, so there was no reason to be polite. She spoke bluntly. "Will you two either come in and sit down or leave? I'm tired, thirsty, and hungry, and I resent being talked about as if I weren't even here."

  She turned and walked into the living room and the men followed, silent for the first time since they arrived. She gestured toward the couch in an invitation to sit and busied herself in the kitchen, washing her hands and fixing three tall glasses of iced tea. She carried them in on a tray and offered a glass to each man, then took her own and sat on a straight-backed chair, mindful of her dirt-caked jeans. The long, icy drink relieved the dryness in her throat and she watched out of the corner of her eye as Shane McKittrick sipped his. She giggled at his look of surprise and said, "If you were expecting whiskey, Mr. McKittrick, I'm afraid it's way beyond my budget. I really meant it when I said I needed that job. If I'm lucky I'll get enough from the sale of the house to get by until I can take some training and learn to support myself."

  Shane frowned. "You're selling this house? Why?"

  She took another drink of the tea. "Because I can't make payments on it."

  Shane glanced around the comfortable room then back to Karen. "Surely there must be someone to look after you."

  Karen bristled. "I don't need anyone to look after me. All I need is a job."

  Shane put down his glass. "You'll never find a job. There are child labor laws in this country. Run along and clean yourself up and we'll take you out to lunch."

  Resentment burned through her as she stood. "I don't need to be fed like a disadvantaged child. I'm sure you are anxious to get back to the city, so—"

  Shane looked at his watch as he cut in. "I'll give you five minutes to get under the shower. If I don't hear water running by that time I'll come and bathe you myself."

  Karen gasped. "You wouldn't dare!"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to try me?"

  Twenty minutes later she was scrubbed and dressed in a cotton print sundress with a fitted bodice, spaghetti straps, and a full skirt. On a larger girl it would have looked fashionably adult but as Karen applied jade eye shadow to highlight her sparkling green eyes she realized that it made her look even more like a little girl. Oh, well, it didn't matter anymore. She might as well be comfortable.

  Mark Jefferson was talking on the telephone when Karen came back into the living room. Shane McKittrick looked at her and grinned. "We've been looking up restaurants in the phone book and decided on The Copper Lantern. Mark's phoning for reservations."

  Karen's eyes widened. "But that's the most expensive place in town!"

  Shane stood and slipped his hand under her elbow. "I think between Mark and me we can manage to pay the bill."

  The Copper Lantern was new and as elegant as Karen had been led to believe with its dark paneled walls, copper accessories, and Early American furniture. She fully enjoyed the rich ham and split pea soup served with thick slices of warm homemade bread and creamery butter. During the meal Mark and Shane, with their gently prodding questions, managed to learn most of Karen's history.

  As she dug into a bowl of blueberry pie swimming in pure cream Mark grimaced and said, "How do you manage to eat like that and stay so petite?"

  She grinned. "Richard used to say I'd pay for it when I get older."

  "Who's Richard?" Shane asked quickly.

  "He's a boy I used to go out with. He was a little chubby and claimed he could put on five pounds just watching me eat."

  Mark chuckled but Shane apparently didn't see the humor. He frowned. "Are there any other men in your life?"

  She paused, taken aback by his abruptness. "No, there aren't. I've been too busy the past two years for much social life. First Mother was so ill, and then when she died I spent all my spare time doing research for Dad's book."

  Shane persisted. "And the book—has it been published? Do you get royalties?"

  Karen shook her head and lowered her brimming eyes. "No. It was only about half finished when he died. I suppose once I start to work I'll have to pay back the advance the publisher sent him."

  Shane and Mark glanced at each other and Shane spoke. "Karen, I can't use you in the position you applied for, it's impossible, but I have a large personal library in my home that needs sorting and cataloguing. It should take about a month and it will be at least that long before your house is sold. I can show you quickly what needs to be done and you'd live at my home on the Monterey Peninsula and receive a salary besides room and board. Are you interested?"

  Karen looke
d at him with amazement. "You mean you're offering me a job after all?"

  He nodded. "Only a temporary one, but it will tide you over until you sell your house and decide what school you want to enroll in."

  She was still unsure. "But if I stay at your house won't your wife object?"

  "I don't have a wife, but before you get any funny ideas, I'm usually only there on weekends and it's a big house with a housekeeper, cook, and several maids, not to mention the gardener. I promise you we'll be properly chaperoned." His eyes twinkled and she knew he was making fun of her.

  She toyed with her coffee cup. The offer was almost too good to be true. It took time to sell a house and get it through escrow, but her home had increased in value over the years, as had all real estate in California. She should have several thousand dollars left after the mortgage was paid off that she could live on and use to pay her tuition to a secretarial school until she was qualified for a job. She looked from Mark to Shane, who were sipping their drinks in apparent unconcern, over whether she accepted the offer or not. Well, it might not make any difference to Mr. Shane McKittrick, but it was of vital importance to her. She had to start earning some money. She looked at Shane and managed a lopsided smile.

  "Thank you, Mr. McKittrick. I can start anytime you'd like."

  Shane stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ash tray and stood. "Good. How about this afternoon?"

  It had been a hectic few hours, but by late afternoon Karen was sitting between Shane, who was driving, and Mark in the front seat of the long, luxurious Lincoln Continental as it sped down the highway. She was beginning to have second thoughts. Whatever had possessed her to agree to pack up and leave her home on the spur of the moment with two men she knew nothing about? They seemed to be wealthy businessmen, but it could be a clever front. Nobody even knew where she was going—there hadn't been time to make phone calls. Shane, as he insisted she call him, told her she could write or make phone calls from his home, but how did she know where he was taking her, or why? She moved restlessly against the soft cream velvet upholstery and made an effort to understand what the two men were talking about. They paid no attention to her as they spoke of accounts and shipments and stock manipulations. Shane was obviously the head man, but she gathered Mark was an assistant or something equally close.