“And you, miss. Your name is?” The microphone was stuck in her face, and Melanie forced a tight rein on her temper as she answered.
“Melanie Clarice Stewart.”
“Well, isn’t this great. Are you two married?”
The stranger’s dark head shook adamantly, his blue eyes hurling daggers at Melanie.
“I am not married and I have certainly never met Miss Stewart,” he said, arrogantly dismissing Melanie’s presence with a brush of his hand. “I was advised by telephone that I had won a contest and that I was obligated to be here today.”
Melanie’s simmering temper flashed to the surface. Not so fast, she thought, and tugged the rumpled letterhead from the pocket of her skirt, intent on wiping the smugly satisfied look from Mr. Mitchel Stewart’s handsome countenance.
“I received this letter by special delivery,” she said, waving the letter for all to see. Heat flooded her face as she stared into mocking blue eyes.
“I was to receive a phone call with further instructions, but—” She paused for effect. Her tone was acidic in the extreme. “Apparently, that went astray.”
Mitchel Stewart looked stunned at her words. Obviously he thought she was faking. Anger rushed through her as Melanie remembered all the things 50,000 could provide for her friends. There was no way this man was going to do her out of what was rightfully hers. She couldn’t afford to let Mr. Pushy M. Stewart push her out of the running. If his name really was Stewart!
Just then, Papa John stepped into the spotlight. Taking the mike from the dumbfounded announcer’s hand, he spoke into it in the soft, musical drawl known throughout North America.
“Now, folks. It looks like there’s been some sort of mix-up here today. According to my information, our winner, M. Stewart, lives at 300 Oak Street in Mossbank, North Dakota.”
His weathered face studied the two. Melanie spoke up.
“Yes, well, I work at that address. It’s a nursing home. Sunset Retirement Home.”
Clearly, Mitchel Stewart was not to be outdone. He stepped forward.
“I am also employed at 300 Oak Street.”
Her anger grew as she glared at him, her eyes narrowed and searching. How could he do this to her? He was lying. She knew it. She knew all the tenants in the home, and she knew the employees, as well. He wasn’t one of them.
“I started two weeks ago.” He said it triumphantly, as if this was a game of one-upmanship. Melanie fumed.
“This sure is a puzzler, folks.” Papa John scratched his head, obviously considering the next step.
One of the most popular television stations in North Dakota was broadcasting a lot of dead air, which was certainly not good for business, but it seemed no one could think of anything to say. Finally, the announcer stepped forward and spoke directly to the camera.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have watched a newsmaking event on WMIX tonight. We apparently have two winners in the Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest, both named M. Stewart and both living in Mossbank and working at 300 Oak Street.” He smiled fatuously at both of them before glancing at the camera. “Keep tuned, and WMIX will keep you up to the minute with events as they happen.”
As he gave the familiar station call letters, Melanie drooped with fatigue. Papa John moved to brush a gentle hand over hers.
“I’m real sorry about this, miss,” he apologized. “I don’t know what happened. There must have been some error. The selections were made by computer.” Papa John grinned at her. “Couldn’t have picked a better station, though, could I? WMIX. Mixed up, they should call it.”
Melanie smiled weakly.
They both turned at the throat-clearing sound from Mitchel Stewart. The dark-haired man had absolutely no manners, Melanie decided grimly. He stood peering down at both of them, eavesdropping on their conversation without any compunction. She turned her back to him deliberately as Papa John spoke again.
“I’m sorry about you, too, Mr. Stewart. I promise you that I will get this straightened out and let you know as soon as I can. Thank you both for making time to come down.” The old man reached into his shirt pocket for a scrap of paper and a pen.
“Where can I reach you during the day, Miss Stewart?”
Melanie shuffled through her purse for a business card. She tried to ignore the tall man directly behind her.
“I am the director of care at Sunset,” she told him, keeping her voice quiet.
“That’s the one attached to the hospital,” Papa John said, scribbling in odd, unreadable ink strokes. “I know about it from friends.”
“Here’s my address,” Mitchel Stewart announced gruffly, unasked. “I’m often at the hospital, but I’ll give you my card with office numbers.” Trust him to butt in, Melanie thought.
A lean, muscular hand proffered a crisp white business card. His fingers were long and well cared for. The hands of a surgeon, Melanie guessed. Surgeons were usually arrogant. She turned to leave the two men.
“I have to get back to work,” she murmured. “Nice to meet you, Papa John.” Melanie glanced at the interloper, nodding dismissively.
As she strode out of the building, she wondered what would happen next when strong fingers closed about her arm.
“I’ll walk with you,” that firm, bossy voice declared. “If you don’t mind, that is. It seems we have something in common besides our names.” He smiled that thousand-watt grin that made her pulse flutter. “I didn’t realize you worked at Sunset. Guess I didn’t notice you.”
Egotistical male, Melanie decided and tossed her gleaming curls. Her normally clear skin flushed with irritation in the bright sunlight. That was just what every woman wanted to hear—that she had been overlooked.
“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. “Please feel free to tag along.”
She was not a small woman, but Mitchel Stewart seemed to tower over her. Even with three-inch heels, her five-foot-five-inch stature seemed small and ineffective beside his height. She felt as if she was losing the upper hand in every confrontation with him.
She glared at him, tugging her arm out of his grasp as she stepped back, her body language telling him clearly not to invade her personal space.
“I don’t appreciate being accosted in broad daylight, Mr. Stewart,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Oh. Sorry. Do you appreciate it more after dark?” he quipped, grinning. “It was a little joke,” he said, his smile noticeably drooping.
“Very little.” Melanie was not amused. “I expect surgeons are so used to getting what they want, they never think of anyone else’s wishes.” Her normally calm, even tones were scathing.
“I expect they are.”
He was trying to mollify her. She could hear it in his voice.
“You admit it?” Her dark eyes opened wide in disbelief. His impudence galled her.
Mitchel wasn’t sure exactly what was going on. He had been aware of her dislike. It emanated from every pore of her well-shaped body. But right now it was as if there was another conversation going on. One that he knew absolutely nothing about.
He studied her small, tilted nose. It fit perfectly with her high-and-mighty attitude. The original attraction he had felt onstage had not abated. For some reason her dislike drew him like a magnet. He wondered if she would consider…Well, why not forge ahead?
Turning quickly, Mitchel folded her arm in his and began striding toward the parking lot. Perforce the lady had to follow, although not happily.
“Will