The Bachelor’s
Stand-In Wife
Susan Crosby
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
Susan Crosby believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes, which often do come true – as long as she works hard enough. Along life’s journey she’s done a lot of the usual things – married, had children, attended college a little later than the average co-ed and earned a BA in English. Then she dived off the deep end into a full-time writing career, a wish come true.
Susan enjoys writing about people who take a chance on love, sometimes against all odds. She loves warm, strong heroes and good-hearted, self-reliant heroines, and will always believe in happily ever after.
More can be learned about her at www.susancrosby.com.
To Gail Chasan with gratitude, for the long-time
support and enthusiasm, then and now.
Thank you for the wonderful opportunities.
And to Sandra Dark, my wordy friend, who proves the
statement, “Writers write.” You do it well.
Chapter One
David Falcon dragged his hands down his face as a woman took a seat across the desk from him.
“Well?” she asked.
“What’s to think about? I just interviewed my twelfth candidate in two days, and I finally realized I’m delusional to hope I can find someone who fits my needs.” He tipped his chair back to look at Denise Watson, the efficient, thirty-something director of At Your Service, a prestigious domestic-and-clerical-help agency nicknamed by many clients as “Wives for Hire.” They were seated in her interview room.
“If you have to compromise on something, what would it be?” Denise asked.
He’d been doing a lot of compromising lately—for three years, in fact. He wasn’t interested in more of the same. “I’m not giving up on the ideal yet. You’ve got other candidates, right?”
“One.”
“That’s all?”
“From my own staffing pool. As you pointed out, you have specific and complex needs. I’d be happy to advertise and screen them for you.”
“What are your thoughts about the one remaining?”
She set a folder on the desk in front of him and smiled. “I’ve learned not to second-guess the client.”
He half smiled in return. “Send her in, please.” He skimmed the woman’s résumé. Ten years’ experience as a domestic, seven in clerical jobs. He speculated on her age—midthirties to forty, maybe? There were too many questions he wasn’t allowed to ask legally, tying his hands, leaving him only intuition and guesswork about her age. He was twenty-nine. It was critical that she be older than him.
“Hello. I’m Valerie Sinclair,” came a quiet but level voice.
He looked up. The woman was either extraordinarily well preserved or had lied about her work experience. She didn’t look a day over twenty-five. She wore a dress and jacket that was way too formal and warm for a hot August day in Sacramento, as if trying to look older. And her hair, a rich, shiny color, like chestnuts, was bundled up in some kind of bun or whatever that style was called, but couldn’t take away from her young age. Her eyes were hazel and direct. No rings on her slender fingers; her nails were short, clean and unpolished.
“I’m