Temporary Bride

• 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,

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Silhouette Books

Editorial Office

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LONDON

WC1B 3DP

Copyright © 1980 by Phyllis Halldorson

First printing 1981

ISBN 0-340-26580-9

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."