HOW TO “just say no” (Even though your heart’s screaming YES, YES, YES!)
1. When a résumé is erroneously faxed to your fledgling catering company, call the sender and leave a message on his machine, politely informing him of his mistake.
2. When the sender calls to thank you over dinner, refuse—with a voice as sexy as that, he’s just gotta have a body to match. And that can only mean one thing: What would he want with you?
3. When the sexy stranger shows up in person to thank you, mistake him for a delivery boy, throw a waiter’s uniform on him and put him to work.
4. When the sexy stranger politely informs you at the end of his rather lengthy shift that he is neither a waiter nor a delivery boy, but a top advertising executive, be totally and utterly mortified.
5. When the sexy ad exec offers you his services, refuse—it’s too late now…Isn’t it?
Dear Reader,
Question of the Month: Why don’t these things ever happen to me? “What things?” you ask. Things like this: A sexy stranger accidentally faxes his résumé to me instead of the company he’d like to work for, so of course I have to call and explain the mistake, which leads to him showing up to thank me in person and…well, you get the rest. Since it doesn’t happen in real life, I guess I’ll just have to settle for the next-best thing: reading all about it in Marie Ferrarella’s delightful new book, Fiona And The Sexy Stranger. I hope you’ll read it, too, because I think you’ll love it—plus you’ll be happy to hear that it’s the first book in Marie’s latest miniseries, THE CUTLERS OF THE SHADY LADY RANCH.
Of course, once your handsome stranger isn’t a stranger anymore, you need to start planning your wedding. Which might take you to someone like Charlotte Westwood, who’s great at planning weddings. Well, except for one thing: She’s never managed to plan her own wedding. Enter Gabe Szulinski, seemingly all wrong but in fact the perfect Mr. Right Looks like she’s going to be too busy with her own nuptials to worry about anyone else’s for a while. And this book, Karen Templeton’s Wedding Belle, also begins a miniseries: WEDDINGS, INC. So watch Charlotte catch the bouquet, then come back soon for more behind-the-scenes peeks at true love and the marriage biz.
And come back next month, too, for two more fun-filled books all about meeting—and marrying!—Mr. Right.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor.
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service.
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Fiona and the Sexy Stranger
Marie Ferrarella
To Lucy Tscherne, with love for a faithful friendship.
From the Author
Dearest Reader,
One of the questions people always ask is “Where do you get your ideas?” My standard answer is “Life,” which people take to mean that I’m being cleverly secretive and refusing to answer. Well, my answer stands, but I can be more specific if you like. Take Fiona And The Sexy Stranger. (And, if you’re standing in the bookstore, just reading this letter, put a “please” before or after that line—at your discretion—and say it with feeling.) The heroine’s name (and only her name) belongs to one of the check-out girls at my favorite supermarket. Fortunately, these days people all wear name tags, so I am forever reading chests, searching for new names. This can, however, lead you into trouble if you stare too intently, so be discreet if you try it. Anyway, I fell in love with her name and decided then and there, as I was parting with yet another hefty amount of money to feed my brood, to use the name in a book at the first opportunity. Okay, so where’s the story, right?
Well, the idea for how she and the hero meet happened in a roundabout way to me. I came home one day to find a perfectly stunning résumé for a physicist lying beside my fax machine. My husband’s a physicist, but since the names were different, and I know his every move, I knew the résumé wasn’t his. I called said résumé sender and told his answering machine that inasmuch as I was a writer, and, in any case, already had my very own physicist, I had no openings for him. I wished him luck elsewhere. I never met the man, but then I started thinking, what if…? That’s all it takes. What if…? The brain is a wonderful instrument. It just needs a little greasing, and off it goes. While mine was going off, creating Fiona and Hank’s story, Hank suddenly got a family and you, dearest reader, suddenly got the first book of a miniseries.
And that’s how it works. Hope you like it.
Love,
1
Fiona Reilly stared at the piece of paper in her hand. Unlike the others, this one had nothing to do with confirmation of a hundred guinea hens, or an order for four dozen long-stemmed wineglasses. It wasn’t even yet another change in plans for the Kellerman wedding that was scheduled for three weeks from Saturday and was destined to drive her out of her mind if Mr. and Mrs. Kellerman didn’t finally make up theirs. So far, there had been no less than fifteen such communications between the Kellermans and the fax line designated for her business.
No, this piece of paper, found nestled in the center of the half dozen other sheets that had been spewed out by her fax machine, was extolling the qualifications, experience and educational background of one Henry Cutler.
It was a résumé. A rather impressive résumé, Fiona thought as she scanned it quickly, belonging to a man who had amassed a number of awards in the advertising field. A résumé that had somehow lost its way and wound up in the wrong place.
“Montana?” she murmured under her breath as she noted where he had gone to school and most recently worked. “I didn’t know they needed to advertise anything in Montana, did you, Velcro?”
In response to her question, the calico-colored Persian cat she’d chosen to name Velcro—for reasons that became obvious to even the most casual of observers after a few minutes in the cat’s presence—leaped up on her lap and immediately made herself comfortable. Fiona knew better than to try to push her off.
As she ran her fingers over Velcro’s fur, Fiona’s first instinct was just to shrug off the error and toss the résumé away. The last thing she needed was more paper cluttering up the already-cluttered area of her kitchen that she had set aside as her office. But as she began to crumple up the résumé, Velcro raised her head and looked at her accusingly. Fiona knew it was just because she’d stopped petting the cat, but the look in Velcro’s eyes had repercussions.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” She stopped crumpling.
On the heels of her impulse came the inevitable twinge of conscience. The same conscience that kept her from stepping on bugs or squashing spiders, no matter how hairy, that skittered across her path.
Sighing, she placed the sheet on top of the others and smoothed it out. Velcro voiced her complaint at sharing the space with an indignant little “meow” and dug her claws in just far enough to get a firm hold on Fiona’s jeans. Accustomed to Velcro’s tenacious habits, Fiona hardly noticed.
What she did notice was that there was no line in the résumé that testified to Henry’s being currently employed. He wasn’t looking to change jobs, he needed one. Her vivid imagination conjured up a mental picture of the man sitting by the phone, waiting for a reply that would never come because she had gotten his résumé by mistake.
That settled it. She put thoughts of her work on hold as she twisted in her chair to reach for the telephone. Velcro voiced another rather strong protest over the sudden shift.
“If you don’t like it, you can always get off,” Fiona told the cat. Velcro seemed to raise a disdainful eye in her direction, but remained firmly entrenched exactly
where she was. Though she tried to act aloof, beneath the disdain was a cat who craved companionship. “No, I didn’t think so.”
Her eyes on the second line of the résumé, Fiona tapped out the numbers to Henry’s telephone. It rang three times. On the fourth ring, the receiver was picked up.
“Hi,” the voice on the other end drawled. It was deep and resonant, filling the phone with a rush of pure male sexuality with just a single word.
Collecting herself, Fiona said quickly, “Hello, you don’t know me, but—”
“This is Henry Cutler,” the voice informed her in the same laid-back tone that Fiona found arousing at the same time that it was soothing.
She didn’t realize she was petting Velcro so hard until the cat meowed a loud protest. “Yes, I know, I was just calling to—”
“—I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll be sure to get back to you.”
An answering machine. Fiona stared at the receiver in mute disbelief. The voice on the other end had sounded to laid-back, so gut-level melodic and sexual, she hadn’t realized that she was talking to a recording. Feeling foolish now, she recovered just as the beep sounded. Her mind scrambled, trying to form a coherent message.
“This is Fiona Reilly. You don’t know me, but you sent a copy of your résumé to my fax machine. It’s a very nice résumé, and while I’d love to hire you, I don’t think working for a tiny company just getting its feet solidly planted on the ground is what you had in mind when you sent the résumé. I’d suggest that you resend your résumé and this time be a little bit more careful where your fingers do the walking.”
The click on the other end told her that she’d used up her allotted space and ended her message just in time. Satisfied she’d done her good deed, Fiona hung up. And then a lazy smile drifted over her lips as she replayed his outgoing message in her mind. God, but that man did have one hell of a sexy voice.
Stroking the cat, she closed her eyes, letting the memory of the voice drift over her. Deep, resonant and incredibly sensual, it had wound its way through her system, curling her toes. She sank deeper into the soft leather chair and sighed.
What did a man with a voice like that look like?
The question no sooner occurred to her than Fiona began answering it. With very little effort at all, she gave Henry Cutler broad shoulders, slender, tapering hips, a killer smile and deep, chestnut brown hair that insisted on being the slightest bit unruly. It curled wantonly, just enough to make a woman’s fingers itch.
She rubbed her palm along Velcro’s back. The cat purred contentedly. The purr vibrated through the animal’s body, joining with her hand. The sensation slowly traveled up her arm until it managed to mushroom throughout her entire body.
Fiona savored the feeling and the image for a long moment, then roused herself.
It was a nice daydream. Reality was that Henry Cutler was probably five foot three, barrel-chested with a fifty-three-inch waist and spindly legs. Day-dreams were always infinitely better than reality, she mused. They were also a lot safer.
Enough of a break, she told herself, it was time to get back to work. Her business wasn’t about to run itself.
She scooped Velcro up and deposited the protesting cat on the floor, then moved in closer to her desk. There was a mountain of papers to sort through. Fiona placed the résumé to one side, for the moment letting it sit in its own singular pile. As soon as she did, she saw the page that was behind it A quick read had her stifling an involuntary groan. It was another missive from Mrs. Kellerman about the upcoming wedding. Chicken Kiev was out, lobster bisque was now in.
Mrs. Kellerman had changed the menu. Again. Fiona could feel several of her hairs turning gray at the roots. Wouldn’t it be nice, she mused, if that sexy stranger was actually Prince Charming and could whisk her away from wicked witches like Mrs. Kellerman? Only thing was, she’d have to have a sexier name to call him than Henry. Fiona grinned to herself. It was always something, wasn’t it?
The small kitchen was alive with a combination of aromas guaranteed to make both boys and men drool and beg for a taste. Unlike the rest of the house, which existed in haphazard clutter and whose only pattern was early, comfortable chaos, the kitchen, though compact in size, was state of the art. As soon as the business had begun earning a little money, Fiona had funneled it all back in and built her kitchen according to utilitarian requirements. She wanted and got only the best. The kitchen was where she spent a great deal of her time and it was the hub for the foundation of her ever-growing reputation.
Ever since she’d catered her first party as a favor for a friend who had a penchant for burning even water, Fiona’s company had been climbing steadily up the hill of success. She wouldn’t be satisfied until she claimed the flag at the top.
Bridgette Turner frowned at her younger sister over the row of cream puffs she was packing. No one made cream puffs like Fiona. They all but floated into the box, backing up Fiona’s claim that they were almost lighter than air.
Lighter than air. Just like Fiona’s brain, Bridgette thought in exasperated annoyance. For such a sweettempered little thing, her sister could be maddeningly stubborn at times. Like now.
She slid the lid over the cream puffs. “But why won’t you at least come and meet Brian’s friend? An innocent little dinner, what harm is there in that?”
An innocent little dinner, Bridgette added silently, that she had gone through great lengths to arrange. Fiona spent so much time mothering this fledgling catering company of hers, she spent absolutely no time on, and certainly seemed to have no interest in, her social life. Someone had to look out for her before she wound up old and alone, still making cream puffs.
Fiona spared her sister a look as she quickly scanned her checklist for the Kellerman wedding a fourth time. She couldn’t wait for this day to be over with.
“The harm, Bridgette, will be to me and my intestinal tract after I spend half the night in your bathroom, retching.”
Bridgette knew it wasn’t an egotistical slur aimed at her cooking, even though she didn’t hold a candle to Fiona when it came to preparing anything remotely fancy. Fiona’s objection was far more fundamental than that and all the more frustrating for it.
“You’re a grown woman, Fiona,” Bridgette reminded her, even though she was trying to bully Fiona into letting her arrange her life.
Knowing she had no intentions of letting Bridgette win this argument no matter what was said, Fiona began packing the guinea hens that had been Mrs. Kellerman’s final choice as of three-thirty yesterday.
“Yes, and as a grown woman, I should be able to make up my mind as to whom I choose to socialize with.”
“Socialize?” Bridgette hooted. She opened another box and continued to pack cream puffs. “Ghosts have a more social life than you do.”
Fiona arched an eyebrow. Why did Bridgette always pick the worst times to play matchmaker? Then she shrugged inwardly. She supposed that wasn’t strictly true. There was never a good time to have her sister play matchmaker.
“I see a lot of people,” she informed Bridgette coolly, her fingers flying as she made the transfer from baking pan to padded box.
“In the line of duty,” Bridgette observed pointedly. No one could match Fiona when it came to people skills. On a work-related level. One-to-one on a personal basis was something else again. Something she repeatedly shied away from. “Oh, you’re a charming bit of a thing, you are.” Bridgette mimicked their grandmother’s thick brogue to a tee, succeeding in coaxing a smile out of Fiona. “Flitting from one person to the other, one man to the other.”. Bridgette’s brogue vanished as she leveled an accusing look at her sister. “As long as it’s just business you’re talking about.”
Fiona picked up the brogue. “In case you haven’t noticed, Bridgette, me darlin’, it’s a business I’m supposed to be runnin’.” She dropped it again, because this was important to her and too serious to joke about. “My business, which I’m
trying very hard to get to take off. That kind of thing won’t happen if I spend my time going out with every Tom, Dick or Harry.”
She closed the lid with finality. Moving the box aside, she opened another. Everything had to be perfect. There were three more daughters in the wings, separated by two years apiece. If she impressed Mr. and Mrs. Kellerman today, Fiona felt confident she would secure at least three more catering affairs in the future. Perhaps even more from the guests.
If she survived this one.
Bridgette gave a very unladylike snort. “I’d settle for you going out with a single Tom or Dick or Harry. Or an Alfred,” she added, referring to the man she had persuaded her husband, after much wheedling, to invite over for dinner tonight. Brian had the same maddening philosophy as Fiona—he wanted things to happen “naturally.” As if the big jerk actually believed that their own meeting had happened “naturally,” when it was only after a great deal of effort on her part, thank-you-very-much.
Bridgette looked at Fiona pointedly. “Fiona, you’re not getting any younger.”
Fiona stopped packing. Of the two of them, Bridgette had always been the family pride and joy. The one the boys had all flocked to when both of them were growing up. The one in whose shadow she had always stood, proud to be her sister and relieved to have a shadow to take refuge in. Not for her was the awkwardness of trying to make small talk while her whole mind had gone completely blank and her tongue had turned to shoe leather.
“You make it sound as if I’ve got one foot in the grave. I’m only twenty-six, Bridgette.” She went back to work. Time was at a premium and growing short. “Although I must admit that talking to you is aging me rapidly.”
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