"No, Murphy," Mary-Clair Cavelli said. "Gazing at me with those big, brown eyes is not going to cause me to change my mind. I am not going to sleep with you." She paused. "Well, to be more precise, you are not going to sleep with me."
Murphy flopped down on a small, braided rug, lowered his chin to his paws and sighed. Mary-Clair patted the old dog on his furry head.
"You're a sweetheart, Murphy," she said, "but Esther said you're to sleep on your rug on the floor next to the bed. Nice try, though."
Murphy thumped his tail on the rug.
Laughing softly, Mary-Clair got into the double bed and pulled up the blankets. She snapped off the lamp on the nightstand, wiggled into a comfortable position, then closed her eyes.
She'd never dog-sat before, was not used to sleeping in a strange bed but, she thought, if she relaxed and ignored the creaking noises the house was making, she would be fine.
Mary-Clair yawned, then gave way to blissful slumber.
Several hours later, she jerked awake and sat bolt upward in the bed, her heart racing.
What had caused her to be snatched from the pleasant dream she had been having? She wondered. Murphy was snoring, the dear old thing. That rumbling noise must be what had wakened her. She'd just have to ignore it and...
"Ohmigod," Mary-Clair whispered, yanking the blankets up to beneath her chin as she sat ramrod stiff on the bed.
She'd heard a thud, then the muffled sound of a man swearing. Oh, dear heaven, she thought frantically, there was someone downstairs.
Was there a telephone in this guest room so she could call the police? She hadn't even looked. Was there an extension in Esther and Bill's room down the hall? She didn't know. There was a robber...or maybe a murderer...tromping around and...
Calm down, she ordered herself, taking a steadying breath. She might not be very big at five-foot-two, but was she a wimp? No, she was not. Was she just going to sit there and wait to be murdered in her bed? No, she was not. She was taking action. Right now. Well, just as soon as she could get her fingers to release their tight hold on the blanket.
A moment later, Mary-Clair slipped off the bed and prodded Murphy with her foot.
"Wake up," she whispered, "and look mean, really vicious." Murphy snored on. "Darn it."
A weapon, she thought, mentally cataloging what she had seen earlier in the now-dark room. Yes, there was a set of golf clubs over in the corner. Perfect.
Tiptoeing around Murphy, then across the room, her legs trembling with fear, Mary-Clair reached the golf bag, drew out one of the clubs, then made her way toward the bedroom door, her mighty weapon at the ready.
By the time Mary-Clair reached the bottom of the stairs, her heart was pounding so wildly she could hear the echo in her ears.
The light in the kitchen, she realized, was on, casting a dim glow over the living room. Why was the intruder in the kitchen? Was there a big market for stolen microwave ovens?
A chill coursed through Mary-Clair as she made her way across the living room. She stopped at the kitchen doorway and peered around the edge, her trusty golf club held high in the air.
Well, for Pete's sake, she thought, frowning. The crook was making himself a sandwich? He had his back to her but she could see a loaf of bread, a jar of mayonnaise and another of dill pickles on the counter.
Good grief, she thought, swallowing a lump in her throat, he was huge. Her father and her five older brothers were all six-feet tall, but this rotten person who had broken into Esther and Bill's house, was at least six-foot-three!
The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Mary-Clair thought, knowing she was on the edge of hysteria.
She crept forward, the golf club now extended toward the man. Just as he speared a pickle with a fork, she planted the club firmly in the middle of his back.
"Put your hands up," she said, wishing her voice didn't sound like a squeaky mouse. "I mean it. Put them up, or I'll...I'll... Just do what I said, mister."
The man's hands shot up in the air, the fork with the dripping pickle going along for the journey.
"Don't make any funny moves," Mary-Clair said. "I have a vicious attack dog right next to me here just waiting for an excuse to take a bite —" her gaze slid over the man, who was wearing dark slacks and a pale blue knit shirt "— of your gorgeous tush, buster."
"Vicious attack dog?" the man said, with a burst of laughter. "Murphy? I'd bet a buck that he's snoring away on his favorite rug even as we speak."
"Huh?" Mary-Clair said.
The man turned, the fork and pickle in his right hand, and calmly removed the golf club from Mary-Clair's grasp with his left.
"Oh, hey," he said, "look at this. Nice. Uncle Bill said he was shopping for a new set of clubs and he sure went top of the line."
He shifted his gaze to Mary-Clair, who was staring at him with wide eyes.
"By the way," he said, "who are you? And what are you doing in my Aunt Esther and Uncle Bill's house wearing nothing but —" he did a quick head-to-toe perusal of Mary-Clair "— a skimpy nightshirt with a picture of Donald Duck on the front?"
He paused. "Well, you can explain the whole thing while I eat my sandwich. I'm a starving man." He extended the fork toward Mary-Clair. "Want a pickle?"
An information hotline began to deliver data to Mary-Clair's beleaguered brain so quickly she could hardly comprehend one message before another came tumbling forward.
The first item to register was the fact, she realized dismally, that she'd just made a complete idiot of herself. This was not a mass-murderer who had decided to make himself a sandwich before killing her deader than a post, he was Esther and Bill's nephew.
The next news that slammed into front row center was that he was the most handsome male specimen she had ever seen.
His features were rugged, as though chiseled from stone, then bronzed by the sun.
His shoulders were wide, the material of the knit shirt stretching across them and the broad chest beneath.
His legs were muscular, his blond hair thick and sun-streaked and just begging to have feminine fingers sifting through it.
His eyes, which had seemed to burn a heated path over her as he'd scrutinized her, were so blue they would make the most gorgeous summer sky appear anemic.
The last bulletin to reach Mary-Clair caused her cheeks to flush.
She was standing there in all her glory in her Donald Duck nightshirt that fell to midthigh and was made of soft, clinging material, clearly defining, she didn't doubt for a minute, her full breasts.
She had to get out of this kitchen!
"Well," she said brightly, "won't this be a great story to tell Esther and Bill? It's so funny...just...hysterical. I mean, here I thought you were a murderer or...and it turns out... My, my, what a hoot." She yawned and patted her hand against her mouth. "I must get some sleep. Enjoy your pickle. Good night."
Mary-Clair spun around and made it all the way to the doorway before a deep voice boomed and halted her in her tracks.
"Hold it right there."
Mary-Clair sighed and turned to face the man again.
"We've established who I am," he said. He set the fork with the pickle on the counter and leaned the golf club against the lower cupboard. "My name is Connor O'Shea, by the way, but I don't have a clue as to who you are or why you're here. I have a key to the house and I bunk in whenever my company assigns me an advertising contract in Ventura." He swept one arm through the air. "Your turn. For all I know, you're a murderer wanted by the FBI."
A flash of fury coursed through Mary-Clair and she planted her hands on her hips. In the next instant she whipped her hands around her elbows as she realized how tightly the material of the nightshirt was being pulled across her breasts. She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.
"You have just given a whole new meaning," Connor said, his voice very deep, very rumbly, and very, very male, "to the cliché 'she's beautiful when angry.'"
The rich timbre of Connor O'Shea's voice caused Mary-Clair to have the disconcerting feeling that her bones were dissolving from the heat that suffused her, a fact that she immediately decided to ignore...somehow.
"For your information, Mr. O'Shea," she said, lifting her chin even higher, "Esther happens to be my dear friend and secretary...well, mine and my law partner's. Be that as it may, Esther asked me to take care of Murphy because of a family emergency that required Esther and Bill to leave immediately."
Connor frowned. "What family emergency? I just got back from an assignment in Paris and was going to catch up on any messages on my answering machine in my apartment in San Francisco in the morning. What's going on?"
"Oh. Well, Esther and Bill's daughter..."
"My cousin, Betsy," Connor said, nodding.
"Betsy is having some problems with her pregnancy and has been ordered to stay in bed. Your aunt and uncle have gone to Chicago to help tend to the other two children and their son-in-law and… So, here I am. Oh, and I'm Mary-Clair Cavelli."
"Man, that's rough," Connor said, dragging one hand through his hair. "I hope nothing happens to that baby. It's a girl and everyone is so excited because they already have two boys and… Well, it was nice of you to step in and take care of old Murphy."
"Vicious beast that he is," Mary-Clair said, smiling.
Connor stared at Mary-Clair intently. "You have a lovely smile, Ms. Cavelli. It just lights up your face and… Look, I apologize if I frightened you by coming into the house unannounced."
"No harm done," Mary-Clair said, averting her eyes from Connor's. "Since you're here, though, I'll go back to my own place in the morning. Murphy doesn't need two baby-sitters."
"You can't do that," Connor said quickly.
No, no way, he thought. He'd just met this intriguing, beautiful, feisty woman and he wasn't about to let her just disappear, never to be seen again.
"What I mean is," he went on, as Mary-Clair frowned at his sudden outburst, "I'll be putting in very long hours on this assignment and Murphy will think he's all alone and he can't handle that. He'll pine away from loneliness, poor old guy. No, you stay on just as planned. You won't even know I'm around because I'll be working until the wee hours of the night."
Connor smiled and Mary-Clair felt a frisson of heat slither down her back.
"Just don't threaten to golf club me to death the next time I come in late," he said.
"Right," Mary-Clair said weakly, then took a much-needed breath as she realized she'd forgotten to breathe during the unsettling effects of Connor's devastating smile.
"So, we're in agreement?" Connor said. "We'll both stay? Here?" He grinned. "Together?"
Mary-Clair Cavelli.
Her named hummed in Connor's mind as he drove through Ventura in the heavy, after-work traffic.
"Mary-Clair Cavelli," he said aloud, making no attempt to curb the smile that formed on his lips.
He could see her so clearly in his mental vision, he realized, it was as though she were sitting right next to him in the car. Her short, curly black hair framed a face with big dark eyes and beautiful, delicate features. She had tawny skin that spoke of her Italian heritage, as did her dynamite temper when she got on a rip. She had a lush figure that her funny nightshirt had been unable to hide.
Mary-Clair Cavelli had caused him to toss and turn through the remaining hours of the previous night because both his body and his mind knew that she was sleeping just down the hall from him in his aunt and uncle's house.
Oh, she was something, Connor mused. He'd had trouble concentrating on the job today, had continually expressed the excuse to those around him that he was suffering from jet lag after flying in from Paris. Ms. Cavelli had had a powerful impact on him, that was for sure...and he liked the feelings she evoked in him, he really did.
He'd been restless and edgy for months, Connor thought, as he maneuvered through the traffic. He was tired of the constant travel his job required, the endless hotel rooms and living out of a suitcase the majority of the time.
And the bottom line that he'd admitted to himself in recent weeks was that he was lonely. He was 36 years old and was ready to settle down and get married, have a slew of babies. He wanted a home to come to each night where he would be greeted by the woman he loved and who loved him in kind.
Mary-Clair Cavelli.
Was she the woman he'd been hoping to find? Had fate had a hand in her being in his Aunt Esther and Uncle Bill's house at the exact moment he made one of his unannounced appearances? Was Mary-Clair his soul mate? His destiny? He didn't know.
"But I sure intend to find out," he said aloud, as he turned a corner and left the busy street behind.
He wove his way slowly through the subdivision of large homes with perfectly kept lawns, his heart quickening when he saw a compact car in the driveway of his aunt and uncle's house. He parked at the curb, picked up the bouquet of flowers from the passenger seat, ran his hand down his tie, then got out of the car.
Moments later Connor inserted his key in the door and entered the house, immediately savoring the delicious aroma of mingled spices that wafted through the air. He closed the door quietly behind him, then drew a deep, steadying breath.
"Honey," he called out, "I'm home."
Mary-Clair stood in front of the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. She stiffened and her eyes widened as she heard Connor's greeting.
Honey, I'm home? her mind echoed. Connor was here? Now? But he'd said he'd be working long hours and she'd probably never see him and… Why on earth was she so glad to hear his voice, to know he was just a room away? Why was her heart beating like a bongo drum and a strange heat swirling low within her? She didn't know. She didn't want to know.
She'd managed to ignore...sort of...the image of Connor that kept creeping into her mind's eye through the hours of the day. She'd refused to listen...sort of...to the memory of his rich, deep voice that caused shivers to flutter throughout her.
Her reactions to Connor O'Shea were ridiculous and a waste of time because he was in Ventura on a temporary assignment.
Besides that, the man was six-foot-three, for Pete's sake. She had an ironclad rule about never dating men who were more than five-nine or -ten to give herself at least a fighting chance of being treated as an equal. She was sick to death of being a "cute little thing" and hearing demeaning nonsense like "I want to put you in my pocket and take you home" that had continually been the mantra of taller men.
Honey, I'm home? Mary-Clair thought, setting the spoon on the top of the stove and straightening the edge of her red sweater over her jean-clad hips. Well, she had news for Mr. O'Shea. She was not now, nor would she ever be, his honey.
Mary-Clair marched from the kitchen with Murphy lumbering behind her. She reached the center of the living room at the same time Connor did and all rational thought fled her mind as he extended the bouquet of flowers toward her.
"I... Thank you," she said, inhaling the lovely scent of the blossoms. She swept her gaze over Connor, mentally approving of his custom-tailored dark blue suit, pale blue shirt, and dark tie. "You were still asleep when I left this morning, I guess. You look very...yuppyish."
"I had jet lag," Connor said, "so I slept late. What smells so good?"
"Spaghetti sauce," Mary-Clair said, meeting Connor's gaze. "I made it following my mother's recipe. I thought I could freeze some for Esther and… Why are you here so early?"
"Do you want me to say I'm still tired from jet lag?" Connor said. "Or should I tell you the truth?"
"Truth is good," Mary-Clair said, frowning. "I was raised to believe that truth is a very important thing."
"Okay," he said, then took a deep breath and exhaled it, puffing out his cheeks. "I'm here, Mary-Clair, because I thought about you all day and I wanted to see you, wanted to ask you to have dinner with me, wanted to spend the evening with you. There. That's the truth."
Say something sophisticated, Mary-Clair told herself frantically. Do not dwell for one second on how what Connor just said seemed to be stroking her like soft velvet and creating a swirling heat deep within her. Execute a firm but polite dust-off of this man who is here temporarily and who is much too tall to even carry on a conversation with.
Mary-Clair opened her mouth and said one little word that came out in a funny little puff of air.
"Oh."
"That's it?" Connor said, smiling. "I bare my soul with all that truth and all I get is a tiny little 'oh'?"
Mary-Clair frowned. "Yes. Nothing else seems to be waiting in the wings to come spilling out of my mouth."
"Are you angry that I showed up here so early?"
"No, not really," she said. "Would you like some spaghetti? I made enough to feed my five brothers."
"Five big protective-type brothers?" Connor said.
"Got it in one," Mary-Clair said, laughing. "They drive me nuts." She paused and became serious. "I suppose it's only fair that I share some truth of my own to match some of yours."
Connor nodded.
"I'm glad you're here, Connor. It will be nice to have dinner with someone...with you...and I thought about you during the day and... That's enough." She spun around and headed toward the kitchen.
Yes! Connor thought, punching one fist in the air.
* * *
The meal was delicious and the conversation lively. The flowers had a place of honor on the table in a pretty vase.
"I'm stuffed," Connor said finally, leaning back in the chair. "It was fantastic. Thank you, Mary-Clair."
"You're welcome," she said.
Connor moved forward again and pushed his plate to one side so he could fold his arms on the top of the table.
"You know," he said, "thinking about what you told me, I have to say that I really admire you and Jessica for focusing your law practice on helping women."
"It's very emotionally rewarding," Mary-Clair said. "In the financial arena we're still struggling a bit. Jessica and I were thrilled when we could afford to hire a secretary. Enter your Aunt Esther and her yummy homemade cookies."
Connor smiled. "She sure can bake, can't she?" He paused and frowned. "Mary-Clair, have you ever considered that you might be putting yourself in danger because some of the men involved in the cases you take on might become a tad ticked off?"
"Why would I be in danger?" she said, a slight edge to her voice. "Because I'm short, not a very big woman?"
"How tall you are has nothing to do with it," Connor said, confusion evident in his expression. "It's a proven fact that men are simply stronger than women, no matter how tall that woman might be." He narrowed his eyes. "You have a thing about being short, don't you? It's a major issue with you? Right, Mary-Clair?"
Mary-Clair stared at Connor for a long moment, then sighed.
"I'm sorry I got so grumpy," she said. "It's just that I grew up with a father and five brothers who are all six feet tall. Then when I started dating? Grim. Now I never go out with a man who is over five-foot-nine or -ten."
A cold fist tightened in Connor's stomach. "I'm six-foot..."
"Three," she finished for him. "I'm a pro at knowing how tall a man is at first glance."
"So you won't go out with me?" he said.
"Nope," she said, poking her nose in the air.
"Would you consider it if I promised to spend the evening walking on my knees?" Connor said.
Mary-Clair laughed. "Oh, good grief."
"I don't get it, Mary-Clair," Connor said. "Why the mind-set against dating tall men? Because you get a stiff neck talking to them or something?"
"There's that," she said, nodding, "but there's even more. Tall men have a tendency to treat me like a child, Connor. They eventually say icky things like I'm so adorable, so cute, or I remind them of a Kewpie doll that should be set on a shelf, taken care of, protected. I'm 31 years old, for heaven's sake."
"Mmm," he said, nodding. "Did you notice that as we sit here at the table we're just about the same height?"
"One does not spend one's life on one's bottom, Mr. O'Shea," she said.
"True." Connor pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "Okay, we'll run a test here." He came around the table and extended his hand to Mary-Clair.
Mary-Clair placed her hand in Connor's and stood, looking up at him.
"What kind of a test?" she said.
Connor released her hand, framed her face in both of his, then lowered his head slowly toward Mary-Clair's.
"This one," he said.
Connor leaned down, bent his knees a bit, then his mouth captured Mary-Clair's in a sweet, tender kiss that intensified moments later.
Oh...my...stars, Mary-Clair thought, then quit thinking and simply savored the exquisite, heated sensations that were rocketing throughout her as she returned the kiss in total abandon.
Connor raised his head a fraction of an inch to draw a ragged breath, then slanted his mouth in the opposite direction and claimed Mary-Clair's lips once again.
There had never been, he thought hazily, a kiss like this. He was on fire, had been consumed instantly by passion so hot, so burning, that he was going up in flames.
But it wasn't lust...oh, no...it was desire that was pure, honest, and real. It was the wanting beyond measure of this woman, not just physically but with a need to mesh with her emotionally, as well. He'd never experienced anything like this before in his life. It was rare, wonderful, awesome.
It was Mary-Clair Cavelli.
And she was his.
When Connor came dangerously close to losing control, he broke the kiss, straightened, and drew a rough breath.
Mary-Clair placed one hand on her racing heart, willing it to return to a normal tempo.
"I..." Connor started, then cleared his throat as he heard the gritty quality of his voice. "I rest my case. Test concluded and passed with flying colors." He paused. "Whew."
"Yes, well," Mary-Clair said, then blinked in an attempt to dispel the sensual mist still swirling around her. "I... My goodness."
"You can say that again," Connor said.
"My goodness."
"Let's sit down," Connor said.
They sank back onto their chairs at the table, then their gazes met.
"Mary-Clair," Connor said, "that was no ordinary kiss. Something very special happened between us just now. You won't deny that, will you? Remember that we put major emphasis on truth."
Mary-Clair wrapped her hands around her elbows. "Truth. Yes. Well, no, I can't deny that the kiss was... I've never experienced anything... What I mean is... I have no idea what I mean."
"We desire each other," Connor said, leaning toward her. "It wasn't lust. Desire means that emotions are involved and that was desire, Mary-Clair. Right?"
"Yes, I...but..." Mary-Clair shook her head. "There's no point in having this discussion, Connor."
"Why not?"
"Because it means we're attempting to discover what this is that's happening between us and that's foolish. You're here for a visit and... Besides, you're still six-foot-three."
"Darn it," Connor said, smacking the table with the palm of his hand and causing Mary-Clair to jerk in her chair. "I thought that kiss just proved that it doesn't matter how tall, or short, we are."
"Oh, Connor," Mary-Clair said, "one kiss doesn't erase what I've known for years. It would only be a matter of time before you went into your tall-man mode, with all the bells and whistles."
"No, I wouldn't," he said, none too quietly. "I don't see you as a short woman." His voice quieted. "I view you as a woman...period. A woman I desire more than any before. A woman who has knocked me for a loop. A woman who has become very important to me very, very quickly. Don't shut me out, please. Give us a chance to find out what this is."
Before Mary-Clair could reply, the doorbell rang.
"Saved by the bell?" she said, attempting to produce a smile that failed to appear.
"We're not finished talking about this," Connor said, getting to his feet. "I'll go see what kind of salesperson is at the door."
"I'll come with you," Mary-Clair said.
Anything would be better than being left at that table with her own thoughts, she decided, following Connor out of the kitchen. She was so muddled, so terribly confused, so aware of the heat of desire still glowing within her. Oh, dear heaven, what was Connor O'Shea doing to her?
Connor opened the front door to find a tall, well-built man standing on the porch holding a foil-covered something. "Who are you?" Connor and the man said in unison.
Mary-Clair stepped forward and planted her hands on her hips.
"Dominick Cavelli," she said, "what are you doing here?"
"Hello, Mary-Clair," Dominick said gruffly, his gaze riveted on Connor. "I was visiting our folks and Mom wanted you to have this cake."
"Which you were only too happy to deliver," Mary-Clair said. "You're checking up on me for the family because I'm in this house alone without the benefit of the security guard at my apartment building."
"In this house alone?" Dominick said, narrowing his eyes. "This guy doesn't look like a dog named Murphy. What's going on here?"
"Come in before you put on a show for the whole neighborhood," Mary-Clair said.
Dominick stepped into the house, pushed the cake at Mary-Clair, then turned to glare at Connor, who matched his stormy expression.
"Connor O'Shea," Mary-Clair said, her voice ringing with fury, "meet my brother Dominick, who is a fine example of some of the bells and whistles I spoke of."
"The what?" Dominick said, glancing at his sister.
"Forget it," she said, placing the dessert on a side table. "Goodbye, Dom."
"Not so fast," he said. "What am I supposed to tell our parents, Mary-Clair? That you're not in any danger over here because there's a big dude living in the house with you and the dog?"
"Oh, now, hey, wait a minute," Connor said.
It was too much, it really was. Dom's sudden arrival, complete with angry accusations, was more than she could deal with, Mary-Clair realized instantly. She was over the top emotionally, due to the unsettling kiss shared with Connor. She had no place to put this.
"Well?" Dom said, staring at his sister. "What do you have to say for yourself, Mary-Clair Cavelli?"
"You've discovered my secret, Dom," Mary-Clair said, slipping one arm through one of Connor's, who stared down at her with wide eyes. "It's time...no, it's long overdue...that the family acknowledge that I'm all grown up and in charge of my own decisions. My darling Connor and I...are..." She waved one hand breezily in the air. "I'd rather not divulge the intimate details so...good night, Dom. Tell Mom I said thanks for the cake."
"Mary-Clair," Dom said, "you have five minutes to pack your suitcase and..."
Connor slipped his arm free of Mary-Clair's, gripped the edge of the door and began to move it slowly toward Dominick.
"Nice meeting you, Dom," Connor said, as Mary-Clair's brother found himself back on the porch. "But Mary-Clair and I prefer to be alone. Bye."
Connor closed the door, locked it, then heavy footsteps could be heard stomping away.
"Oh, my stars," Mary-Clair said, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "What have I done?"
Connor sat on the sofa, his head swiveling back and forth as he watched Mary-Clair pace.
"I can't believe I did that," Mary-Clair said, as she continued her trek. "What could I have been thinking? I wasn't thinking...not rationally. I was so jangled from that kiss we shared and...I actually told Dominick that you and I..." She glanced at her watch. "Oh-h-h, Dom will be at my parents' house any minute now with his announcement that you and I... The phone is going to ring. My mother is going to call here and... Oh-h-h."
She kept up her nonstop chatter and as each minute ticked by, Connor O'Shea fell a little more in love with Mary-Clair Cavelli.
Man, Connor thought, unable to keep from smiling, he was on top of the world, felt fantastic. He was honest-to-goodness in love for the first time in his life. And there she was, the woman who had captured his heart so fast it was unbelievable. There she was. Mary-Clair.
Connor frowned. There she was...coming unglued and he was sitting here grinning like an idiot instead of trying to comfort her.
"Mary-Clair," he said, "I want to help. You said your mother is going to call. And say what? That your five big brothers are being dispatched posthaste to beat me to a pulp?"
Mary-Clair stopped in front of Connor and met his gaze.
"I wish it was that simple," she said, throwing out her arms.
"Oh, thanks a bunch," he said, laughing. "How long does a person have to stay in a body cast?"
"Don't be silly, Connor," she said. "The Cavellis are not a violent family." She paused. "Well, there was the time when I was 10 and a boy cut off one of my braids and my brothers... Forget it. That's ancient news."
"Fast forward to the present," Connor said. "What is your mother going to say?" He patted the cushion next to him. "Come here."
Mary-Clair collapsed next to Connor and allowed him to draw her near. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed.
"My mother," she said, then drew a wobbly little breath, "will invite us to dinner."
Connor waited...15 seconds, 20, 30.
"That's it?" he said finally. "You're all shook-up because we'll be asked to eat Italian meat loaf, or something?"
Mary-Clair sat up and turned to look at Connor, her face only inches from his.
"You don't understand," she said. "My family won't rant and rave about what I told Dom, about what they believe you and I are... Oh, no, they'll simply march right on to the next step."
"Guess who's coming to dinner?" Connor said, raising his eyebrows.
"You bet," she said, nodding. "They'll put you through the inquisition...big-time. They will do that, you see, because they'll be taking the very firm stand that we are...are getting married, Connor."
Three cheers for the Cavelli clan! Connor mentally yelled, while maintaining a serious expression.
"I see," he said slowly. "That's certainly an old-fashioned stand, isn't it?"
"This is terrible, just terrible," Mary-Clair said, plunking her head back onto Connor's shoulder. A second later she popped up again. "I'll straighten this out, Connor. I'll tell my mother that I had a hard day, was tired, just lost my temper when Dom…"
"No, now wait a minute," Connor said. "If you do that you'll be viewed as a cute little girl who threw a tantrum because she needed a nap."
"Oh, blak."
"Indeed," Connor said, gripping Mary-Clair's shoulders. "Listen to me. You've taken a decisive step toward your independence, made it clear that you're a mature woman who is capable of making her own decisions. You don't want to lose all the ground you've gained, do you?"
"Of course, not, but..." Mary-Clair started.
"So, don't," Connor said. "We'll accept the invitation to dinner. I can handle the bare lightbulb bit."
"What's the point?" Mary-Clair said. "We are not getting married, Connor."
Don't bet the farm on that one, sweet Mary-Clair, Connor thought, his heart soaring at the mere idea of Mary-Clair becoming his wife, his life's partner.
"You're buying time, don't you see?" he said, tightening his hold slightly on Mary-Clair's shoulders. "This will give your family an opportunity to get used to the idea that you're all grown-up, that you don't need your brothers hovering over you. They'll realize that you're a woman, not a child."
"But..."
The telephone shrilled in the distance.
"Oh-h-h," Mary-Clair said, flinging her arms around Connor's neck. "There's my mother in her stubborn Italian mind-set, determined to find out who this man is who should make an honest woman of her baby girl."
"Go answer the phone," Connor said, as it continued to ring. "Go on. Be brave, courageous, and bold. You can do it."
Mary-Clair got to her feet. "Are you certain this is a good plan?"
"Positive," he said, nodding.
"Why are you putting yourself through this, Connor? It's a lovely thing to do...helping me prove my independence and maturity to my family. It's going to be a grim evening, believe me. So, why are you doing this?"
Because I love you, Mary-Clair Cavelli, Connor thought, and I intend to tell you that just as soon as I think you're ready to hear it.
"I'm a nice guy?" he said, smiling up at her.
"You're a wonderful guy," Mary-Clair said, smiling at him warmly. She pressed her hands flat on her stomach and drew a steadying breath. "Here I go. Answering the phone. Next week."
"Mary-Clair!"
"Okay!"
She hurried across the living room and into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned, sank back onto the sofa next to Connor, and sighed.
"Tomorrow night," she said dismally. "Dinner at the Cavelli homestead. Seven o'clock."
Laughter erupted in the dining room at the Cavelli home as Connor related a tale of accidentally presenting an advertising campaign for baby diapers to the directors of a beer company.
Mary-Clair looked at her smiling family, then shifted her gaze to Connor, her heart racing as she drank in the sight of him.
Her family, she knew, was captivated by Connor. And so was she. Time and again during the day she'd thought about how determined Connor had been to help her cement her independence. That was what a special friend would do, and she'd heard so often that the person someone loved should also be her best friend.
Mary-Clair, stop, she told herself. She was not in love with Connor O'Shea. Granted, she melted at his touch, and dissolved when he kissed her. He occupied her mind during the day and caused her to wake in the night suffused with heated desire. She'd found herself counting the hours until she would see him again and...
No. Nothing could erase the fact that Connor was six feet three inches tall. There had not been even a hint that he would treat her like a child, but it was just a matter of time before he began to view her as a cute little thing who needed to be protected from the big, bad world.
There were also the data, Mary-Clair mused on — that Connor resided in...
"You live in San Francisco?" Nick Cavelli said.
Bingo, Mary-Clair thought dismally. And it was miles and miles away.
"Yes, I do," Connor said, looking at Mary-Clair's brother, whom he recalled was a year older than Dominick. "For now."
"Oh?" Rome said.
Huh? Mary-Clair thought, staring at Connor.
Rome, Connor thought quickly. He had been named in honor of the Pope. It was a good thing the two married brothers couldn't make it tonight, or he'd never be able to keep them all straight.
"My company has been considering opening a branch in Ventura," Connor said. "I spoke with the CEO today and said I would be happy to head up an office here. An hour later I got a call saying it was a done deal. I'm going to start scouting locations."
"Isn't that nice?" Marcella said, beaming at her husband, Clemento.
"Sounds good," Mary-Clair's father said. "Then you'll be a citizen of Ventura, just like our Mary-Clair."
"Yes, sir," Connor said.
No, sir, Mary-Clair thought. Connor was laying it on too thick in his quest to buy her time to establish her womanly identity. Well, she supposed this had merit. When Connor resumed his traveling it would be a ready excuse as to why their relationship didn't work out. Score another point for O'Shea.
But he would be leaving.
And the very thought of that, she realized instantly, was causing a chill to sweep through her as she envisioned saying that last goodbye to Connor.
"Arrivederci gelato," Connor boomed, as he drove through the heavy traffic. "Hey, Mary-Clair, am I good at this Italian stuff, or what?"
"You just said," Mary-Clair said, laughing, "goodbye to ice cream."
"Whatever," Connor said, glancing over at her with a grin. "You are molto bellino. That means very pretty, you know."
"Grazie," Mary-Clair said, dipping her head slightly. "Yep, you're a pro at speaking Italian after just one evening at the Cavellis."
"Awesome, isn't it?" he said, chuckling. "Are your other two brothers as good-looking as the three that were there tonight? You Cavellis are certainly attractive people. You could be models."
Mary-Clair frowned. "I'm a tad short to be a model."
"Oops. I didn't mean to hit on that subject," Connor said. "Let's talk about food. Your mother is a great cook and that was a delicious dinner. What can I say? I enjoyed myself. You have a fantastic family."
"I love them very much," Mary-Clair said quietly, "even when they're making me crazy." She paused. "You actually had a pleasant evening? Despite the fact you were being given the third degree?"
"Yep," Connor said, nodding. "I just kept reminding myself that your clan believes we're living together...in every sense of the word. If you look at it like that, the drilling they gave me was perfectly understandable. If the smiles, handshakes, plus the hug from your mother mean anything, I didn't score too badly."
"You were wonderful," Mary-Clair said, "considering you were winging it, making stuff up as you went along."
"What do you mean?" Connor said, frowning.
"You know, the bit about moving here to Ventura to open a branch office."
"Oh, that," he said. "Hey, we're home. I bet Murphy will be glad to see us, providing he realized we left."
"I guess it will work out all right," Mary-Clair said, as Connor pulled into the driveway. "I'll tell my family you changed your mind about living here, decided you liked traveling after all, and our relationship went south, or some such thing."
"Mmm," Connor said, then got out of the vehicle.
Murphy was snoring when Mary-Clair and Connor entered the house. Mary-Clair went into the kitchen to tend to the bag of leftovers that her mother had insisted she take home, as usual. When she returned to the living room she discovered that Connor had turned on one lamp, casting a soft glow over the area. He was sitting on the sofa, his arms spread across the top.
"Come sit by me, Mary-Clair," he said. "Please?"
Mary-Clair walked slowly forward. "Don't you think that sounds reasonable, Connor? You left to resume your jet-set existence and we fizzled out?" She sat down next to him and looked at him questioningly.
"It would, except..." Connor said, then dropped a quick kiss on Mary-Clair's lips. "Mary-Clair, everything I said tonight was true."
"What?" Mary-Clair said, her eyes widening.
"I am going to head up a new branch office here," Connor said, wrapping one arm around Mary-Clair's shoulders. "I am tired of traveling all the time. I am going to live in Ventura...permanently."
"Oh," Mary-Clair said, her mind racing.
Connor wasn't going to leave? she thought incredulously. He wasn't going to disappear from her life as quickly as he'd come into it? This was wonderful! No, it was terrible, just awful. He'd be living in Ventura, would be as tempting as a box of delicious chocolates that were taboo on her constant diet and... Dear heaven, now she was even more muddled and unsettled than she'd been since the moment she'd met him.
"You don't look too thrilled with this bulletin," Connor said, frowning.
"I'm — I'm just surprised, that's all," she said. "I thought you told my family that you were moving here so that our — our relationship wouldn't appear so temporary and tacky and… You're staying?"
"I am," he said, nodding decisively. "I'll finish this job I'm on, find an apartment, go back to San Francisco, and ship my belongings down here. In the meantime, I'll look for a good location for the branch when I have spare time. I'm going to settle in and settle down, Mary-Clair."
"Oh," she said again weakly. "That's — that's...interesting. I'm sure your aunt Esther and uncle Bill and Murphy will be thrilled to have you living in Ventura."
"And you?" he said. "How do you feel about it?"
"Could I get back to you on that question?" she said. "I need time to process this information."
"In that case," Connor said, "you should have all the data so you can do a proper job of processing."
"I'm missing something?" Mary-Clair said, raising her eyebrows.
"Oh, yes, ma'am, you most certainly are." Connor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Mary-Clair Cavelli, I, Connor O'Shea, am deeply and forever in love with you. You knocked me over, captured my heart, and I don't want it back. You're my soul mate, Mary-Clair, the woman I was beginning to believe that I would never find. I want to marry you, make beautiful babies with you, spend the remainder of my life with you. Ah, Mary-Clair, I love you so very, very much."
Mary-Clair jumped to her feet, the color draining from her face as tears filled her eyes.
"No, don't say that," she said, her voice trembling as she wrapped her hands around her elbows. "Don't tell me that you want to marry me, have beautiful babies and... Don't declare your love for me, Connor, because then I won't be able to keep from listening to my heart to discover how I feel about you. I might be in love with you right now, but I don't want to know. I don't. No, no, no." Two tears slid down her pale cheeks, followed by two more. "No."
Connor got to his feet and gripped Mary-Clair's shoulders.
"Mary-Clair," he said, "talk to me. I don't understand why you're so upset. I have a right to know why you're rejecting me, don't you think? Sit back down. Please?"
Mary-Clair nodded, dashed the tears from her cheeks, then settled next to Connor again on the sofa.
"Oh, Connor," she said, her voice trembling, "I hated the thought of never seeing you again. Then when you said you really planned to live here, I was so happy."
"Go on," he said.
"You're everything I ever hoped to find in a man." Fresh tears filled Mary-Clair's eyes. "Oh, there's nowhere to hide from the truth. I've fallen deeply in love with you, Connor."
"That's fantastic," he said, smiling.
"No," she said, "it's not. I want, I need to be an equal partner in a relationship, a marriage, not someone who is protected and fussed over."
"But I've never..." Connor started.
"I know," she interrupted, waving one hand in the air. "You've never done anything to diminish my womanliness, have never treated me like a child because I'm short, small. You even went to my parents' house to help me establish my status as a woman capable of making her own decisions."
"Right," Connor said.
"But it's just a matter of time, Connor," Mary-Clair said. "It will happen. You'll hover, start saying I shouldn't do this, or that, because I'm so tiny and helpless and you'll step in and take care of it."
"No, I..."
"Painful experience has proven to me that what I'm saying is true. The difference in our heights is an insurmountable obstacle that would take a terrible toll on our marriage, no matter how much we might love each other. Some things...some things in life, even those we wish for with all our hearts, our very souls, are not meant to be. I can't marry you, Connor. I'd rather keep the precious memories of our time together than be a party to everything we have being crumbled into dust, destroyed."
"I see," Connor said quietly, his mind racing.
Easy, O'Shea, he told himself. Mary-Clair was at the edge emotionally. He'd defeat his own purpose if he pleaded his case, or argued about what she was saying. Better to keep still for now and savor the knowledge that she loved him, just as he loved her. Oh, man, Mary-Clair Cavelli was in love with him!
"Well," he said, framing her face in his hands, "I'll have to...to deal with what you've said, won't I? But now? Let's create another precious memory. I want to make love with you more than I can even begin to tell you. Will you make love with me, Mary-Clair?"
A jumble of voices seemed to shout in Mary-Clair's mind and she hushed them, listening only to her heart.
"Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes, Connor, I want to make love with you. Right now."
A week later Mary-Clair sat at the desk in her office, staring into space.
Glorious, she thought dreamily. That was only one of the adjectives she could use to describe the past seven days, and ecstasy-filled nights of lovemaking shared with Connor.
Mary-Clair sighed and frowned.
And with each tick of the clock, she thought, she fell more deeply in love with Connor O'Shea. Oh, how foolish she was being by existing in a world of fantasy, living out a fairy tale that was not going to have a happy ending.
She could not, would not, agree to marry Connor, couldn't face a future of waiting for the inevitable when he would begin to shift, change, start to treat her like a helpless child. And it would happen. That was a given.
Connor, she mused on, had apparently accepted her refusal to marry him and had no intention of attempting to change her mind. He'd declared his love for her endlessly through the past week, but had stopped short of speaking of their having a future together.
Connor knew, as she did, that they were living on borrowed time, creating memories to keep until they had to say their final goodbyes. A farewell that would mean she would cry in the darkness in the lonely nights that followed.
Mary-Clair sniffled.
She was thoroughly depressing herself, she thought, getting to her feet. Enough of this. The workday was at an end. It was time to go home. To Connor.
Mary-Clair took her purse from the bottom drawer of the desk just as her law partner, Jessica, appeared in the doorway.
"I'm off," she said. "Are you and Connor doing anything special tonight?"
"We're going to watch Casablanca on television," Mary-Clair said, smiling. "Connor will laugh himself silly when I weep at the icky ending." She paused. "Maybe I shouldn't watch that movie. It will only remind me that I'm going to cry buckets when my romantic interlude is over."
"Mary-Clair..."
"Jessica, don't start," she said, crossing the room. "There's nothing anyone can say to change my stand. I will not marry a man who is six-foot-three. It's a disaster waiting to happen and...I refuse to discuss this again. Good night."
Jessica threw up her hands in defeat. "Good night, Mary-Clair."
When Mary-Clair parked behind Connor's car in the driveway, her heart began to race in anticipation. She hurried across the lawn and went into the house to find Connor standing in the middle of the living room, a serious expression on his face. She went to where he stood, looking up at him questioningly.
"Connor?" she said. "What's wrong? You look as though you just lost your best friend."
"Well put," he said quietly, drawing his thumb over one of Mary-Clair's cheeks. "Mary-Clair, my aunt Esther just telephoned. My cousin is doing fine now. Aunt Esther and Uncle Bill will be returning home tomorrow."
Mary-Clair felt as though the world had suddenly tilted on its axis. She reached out a shaking hand to grip the arm of an easy chair, then moved on trembling legs to sink onto it.
"Tomorrow?" she said, her voice seeming to come from far, far away. "Esther and Bill will be here...tomorrow?"
Connor pulled a matching chair in front of Mary-Clair and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, then taking her hands in his.
"Mary-Clair," he said, looking directly into her eyes, "we knew this was going to happen...my aunt and uncle returning home. I'm grateful that my cousin and the baby are all right, but I wish we... Listen to me. This week, this incredibly fantastic week we've shared, must have shown you that we are compatible beyond measure. We're so connected, so in tune, so... We're in love with each other. We're soul mates who are meant to be together forever."
"Connor, I..."
"Haven't I proven to you that I'd never do anything to diminish your worth as a woman?" Connor went on, a slightly frantic edge to his voice. "Don't I treat you as an equal partner in our relationship? Can't you see that what we have together is far more important than how tall, or how short, we might be? Ah, Mary-Clair, please. Say you'll marry me, be my wife and the mother of the miracles that will be the children we'll create. I love you so much. Please, Mary-Clair."
Her heart, Mary-Clair thought, as a sob caught in her throat, was shattering into a million pieces. She was so cold, chilled to the very core of her being because...because it was over. The fantasy had ended. The last frame of the romantic movie had played and now the screen was dark, so very dark.
"Mary-Clair?" Connor said, his voice husky with emotion as he tightened his hold on her hands. "Please?"
As though watching from outside her own body, Mary-Clair saw herself pull her hands free from Connor's, push back the chair, and get to her feet, tears spilling onto her pale cheeks.
"No. No, I can't marry you, Connor," she said, then took a sob-filled breath. "I can't bear the thought of waiting, waiting, waiting for you to begin to change, start treating me like a..." She shook her head as tears closed her throat.
Connor lunged to his feet and gripped her shoulders. "Don't throw us away, Mary-Clair. Trust me, believe in me and my love for you. I'm begging you. Don't do this."
"I have to," she said, sobbing openly as she twisted out of his grasp. "I have no choice because I know, I know what will eventually happen and... No, Connor, I love you so much but I can't, I won't marry you. I'm going to pack and go to my apartment now, tonight. I'm going home, Connor, where I belong. Alone."
The following week was a study in misery for Mary-Clair and she was, she knew, performing as an attorney practically by rote.
Late in the afternoon of the eighth day since her heart, she was convinced, had crumbled into dust, Mary-Clair sat at her desk in the office. She leaned her head back against the top of the chair and closed her eyes, willing threatening tears to not spill over...again.
Dear heaven, she thought, she missed Connor so much. Ached for him. Wanted to see his smile, feel his touch, inhale his aroma. How long would this pain last? How long would she weep for all that might have been, but would never be? Oh, Connor.
"Mary-Clair," Esther said, appearing in the doorway, "there's a delivery here that you have to sign for, dear."
Mary-Clair raised her head. "Delivery? I didn't order anything, Esther. There must be some mistake."
Esther shrugged. "Well, you best talk to this man who wants your signature and explain that he has the wrong Mary-Clair Cavelli."
"Who is at this address, according to the delivery slip," Jessica said, peering over Esther's shoulder.
"I don't need this hassle," Mary-Clair said, getting to her feet.
She stomped around her desk, and Esther and Jessica stepped quickly out of her determined-to-end-this-nonsense way. The moment that Mary-Clair entered the small reception area she stopped so fast she teetered. The space was filled with seven boxes of various sizes.
"Mary-Clair Cavelli?" a man in a brown uniform said. "Sign here, please, ma'am."
"What is all this?" she said, sweeping one arm through the air. "I didn't order seven...whatever they are. Take them back with you."
"Sorry, ma'am," the man said, "but I can't do that. If there's a problem, you'll have to fix it with whoever sent the stuff."
Mumbling under her breath, Mary-Clair scribbled her name on the paper attached to a clipboard, then the man beat a hasty retreat. Jessica and Esther came to stand on either side of a frowning Mary-Clair, who leaned over and looked at one of the shipping labels.
"The Everything Store," she read. "I've never even heard of it, let alone ordered seven...somethings from there. Now what do I do?"
"Open them," Esther said. "That will give you more data when you call the store to explain there was an error."
"Good idea," Jessica said. "Go for it, Mary-Clair."
Mary-Clair sighed wearily, then tugged at the edge of the flap on the top of the tallest carton. Ten minutes later she planted her hands on her hips and swept her gaze over the bounty.
"Strange," she said. "Seven step stools painted bright, primary colors, each a different height. Seven."
"Wrong, Mary-Clair," Connor said, as he entered the office. He was carrying a yellow stool with three steps and set it on the floor directly in front of him. "There are eight."
Mary-Clair's eyes widened and her heart began to beat in a wild tempo as she drank in the sight of Connor O'Shea.
"Connor?" she said, not totally convinced he was actually standing there.
"Yes, Mary-Clair," he said, no readable expression on his face. "It's me. It has taken me this long to have all these stools custom-made to my specifications after I carefully measured distances from your height to the top cupboard in a kitchen, a closet shelf, the overhead storage compartment in an airplane, and on the list goes."
Jessica and Esther eased into Jessica's office and closed the door...almost...leaving a two-inch gap.
"But why?" Mary-Clair said, sweeping her confused gaze over the stools.
"Just to make things easier for you if you want to use them," he said. "It doesn't diminish who you are as a woman, it's simply a thoughtful gesture on my part. And this stool?" He gestured to the bright yellow one at his feet. "It will bring you eye-level with me, make you my equal physically as you already are emotionally and intellectually. This stool is for when you want to kiss me, Mary-Clair. You can use it at the altar when we get married if you choose to."
"I..." Mary-Clair started.
"Oh, Mary-Clair," Connor said, his voice husky, "don't you see? I love and respect you. You. The woman. My love for you has nothing to do with how tall, or short, you might be. Please marry me, be my wife and the mother of our children. Don't allow the pain you suffered in the past because of insensitive men rob us of our happiness now, of our future together."
Mary-Clair drew a shuddering breath, her mind whirling.
"Listen to me," Connor went on. "I shot up to six-foot-three when I was only 14 years old. From then on everyone expected more from me than I was capable of giving. They thought I should be more mature, more intelligent, more proficient at sports, just because I was tall.
"I would have given anything back then to be the same size as my friends. I understand what you've been saying, believe me, I do. We've walked the same path in the past, which gives us an edge as we travel into the future...together."
"Connor, I..."
"Ah, Mary-Clair," he said, a catch in his voice, "please. Marry me." He extended his arms toward her. "Ti voglio bene."
"Oh, Connor," Mary-Clair said, smiling through her tears, "I love you, too, and...and yes, yes, yes, I'll marry you."
Mary-Clair ran across the room, up the steps of the pretty yellow stool and flung herself into Connor's embrace.
Just as Jessica and Esther peeked out the doorway of Jessica's office, then exchanged satisfied smiles, Connor captured Mary-Clair's lips in a kiss of commitment, a kiss that spoke of their future together, of love that would last...forever.
The End