Daddy By Design? & Her Perfect Wife

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “What you need,” Sherry interrupted her firmly, “is a wife. And I know just the man for the job.”

  2

  MELINDA TOLD HERSELF to close her mouth and disregard what was going on inside her head: a lot of jumping up and down, yelling about the cavalry coming.

  “I need a wife,” she echoed finally. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Serious as an IRS audit,” the woman across from her said, with that half smile still in place. “You need one of those fifties-television wives, right? The kind nobody really wants to be anymore? Someone who keeps house and takes care of your personal life while you’re out becoming a doctor.”

  “And you know the man for the job.”

  “Since third grade.”

  Well, shoot—it was tempting. A simple, efficient solution to a whole bunch of problems. Melinda raised her hand, got the waiter’s attention, pointed to the short, businesslike drink on a nearby table, then touched the tabletop in front of her.

  “How much does he charge?” she asked as the waiter flicked his order pad in the air and scurried away.

  Sherry grinned. “The man I’m talking about will work for marriage. And health insurance.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s really a stockbroker with a case of job burnout, not a housekeeper,” Sherry explained. “He wants some time off to study for his financial planner’s exam, but he needs to stay insured while he’s not working. Plus he thinks that a guy quitting to get married will make a statement about gender inequality or something.”

  “Oh,” Melinda said, regretfully discarding what was really a brilliant way to slide out of dealing with all that daily domestic drone stuff that was ruining her life. “He’s crazy. Well, never—”

  “I’ll admit I thought the same thing when he first brought up the idea, but now…” Sherry looked thoughtful, the odd little smile returning. “Now I think it’s the perfect solution for you both.”

  Melinda prodded her chicken slab. Had they both lost their minds? She couldn’t marry somebody she’d never met. Could she? No, she should drop the whole crazy subject and get back to the hospital. Back to reality. She had ten charts to work up before Bowen came in for evening rounds. “What if I’m already involved with somebody?”

  “You’re not,” Sherry replied knowingly. “Your aunt Gertrude told me all about you, except the criminal lawn bit.”

  The waiter brought Melinda’s drink. She took a healthy sip. “Just how well do you know my aunt?” she asked.

  “She’s been a client of mine for almost ten years.”

  Ten years? Aunt Gertrude didn’t go to the same hair-dresser twice. She must really trust Sherry Downe and her judgment.

  So maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea. “And this guy who wants to be a wife. You’ve known him since third grade?”

  “Yep,” Sherry said. “You couldn’t do better than Jack Halloran. He’s smart, responsible, trustworthy—and a natural-born caretaker.”

  Jack Halloran. He had a name. It made the whole idea more real somehow, but… “If he’s so wonderful, why doesn’t he have someone already lined up to marry?”

  “Because Jack’s not interested in true romance—or any other kind,” Sherry declared in a tone too positive to doubt.

  “Is he gay?” Melinda asked, taking another sip of whatever she’d ordered. Not that his sexual orientation mattered, of course. Even if she did marry this stranger, she wouldn’t consider having sex with him…would she?

  Sherry shook her head.

  Right. As if she had time for that, anyway.

  “Meet him,” Sherry suggested, “then make up your mind. But I promise you, if you marry Jack Halloran, your problems are over.” She gestured at the city code violation notice. “By the time they get back, he’ll have your parents’ yard looking like a golf course. And you’ll have clean clothes all the time. Home-cooked meals….”

  God, it was tempting. So tempting. The perfect answer to a prayer she hadn’t even known she’d been praying.

  Still, she would have never made such a snap decision, she told herself later, if she hadn’t been working the ER that month. It put her in crisis management mode.

  Draining her drink, Melinda plunked the glass on the table and grinned at the woman across from her.

  A surge of elation and hope and plain old adrenaline-fueled daring pushed its way through her guilt and frustration and exhaustion. This was what surgeons do, she told herself. Define the problem, determine the solution and do it. “Your friend Jack would really be up for this? Being a ‘wife’ for six months while I finish my surgical fellowship, then…well, riding off into the sunset?”

  Sherry looked at Melinda for a long moment.

  Tension built.

  Then the stockbroker pulled her briefcase onto her lap and stuck her hand inside.

  “Let’s ask him,” she said as she retrieved a cell phone and flipped it open.

  WITH A SHUDDER, Jack slammed the bedroom door on the disaster. Thank God the woman wouldn’t be inspecting his apartment as part of the selection process.

  But he’d had to scramble. And what the heck do you wear to a “wife” interview? he wondered as he gathered his keys and wallet from the breakfast bar and headed for the door. Not the boxers and ragged Rangers T-shirt he’d been working out in when the phone rang.

  After a quick shower, shave and some hair gel, he’d finally settled on a business-casual outfit of khakis and a purply blue shirt Sherry called indigo.

  He still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to meet this doctor who must be nuttier than a San Saba pecan grove. Except that women shouldn’t get all the equal rights; he loathed his job the way environmentalists despise strip miners; and he needed to commit beaucoup time to study if he wanted to pass that bleeping CFP exam.

  Besides, Sherry had dared him to put up or shut up, and dammit, it would be nice to meet somebody who wanted his help for a change.

  Unlike Tess. Who’d hung up on him just before Sherry called.

  Jack growled with frustration as he left the apartment and loped down the outside stairs. Dammit, he knew Tess missed Pete. Hadn’t he envied the way they’d been crazy about each other from the get-go?

  But it just proved his theory. The only safe way to approach marriage was this way—as a compensation package.

  Pleased with the analogy, Jack climbed into his Jeep and headed for the restaurant. ’Cuz I’m so never falling in love.

  Too freaking dangerous.

  At twenty-seven, Pete Malloy had been diagnosed with cancer; in eight months he was gone.

  And a year later, Tess still claimed she wasn’t ready to get on with her life—as in, start dating again.

  No way I’m opening myself to that kind of grief.

  Of course, in thirty-one years, he hadn’t met anyone who knocked his socks off like with Pete and Tess, so he was probably immune. Another reason he might as well marry this doctor.

  If he didn’t, he’d have to keep working for Go-For-The-Jugular Jensen.

  Hell, the overnight shift in the most dangerous convenience store in south Dallas was more appealing than that, Jack thought as he pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot and killed the engine.

  He sat there a moment, absentmindedly raking wind knots out of his hair, wondering exactly what the doctor expected in the way of wifely duties.

  She wouldn’t demand that I be her boy-toy, would she?

  It’s not that he had to love a woman to make love with her, of course, but sex under those conditions, on demand…?

  “Glaack,” Jack muttered, and leaped from the Jeep.

  Still figuring he was as loony as a New Yorker who’d been riding the subway too long, Jack strode into the restaurant, gave his name to the guy holding menus and followed him through the after-church throng filling the place.

  What if this Dr. Burke turned him down?

  She couldn’t! Jack came to a halt in mid-restaurant as he faced facts: it was marry the doc or bag beer at
the Stop-n-Sip. He’d taken all of Jugular Jensen—and equity trading—he could take, but he wasn’t naive enough any longer to think that a guy his age couldn’t need medical insurance. Hell, just driving the Dallas freeways was a health risk these days.

  “SHE’S ANSWERING A PAGE,” Sherry said when he arrived boothside to find her alone. “She’ll be back.”

  Jack felt a bead of sweat form between his shoulder blades as he slid in opposite her. “Tell me again which one of us is crazier, Downe—you, me or the saw-bones?”

  Sherry refused to be drawn. “How’s Tess?” she asked after they’d ordered coffee from a waiter lurking behind a nearby ficus tree.

  Jack frowned. “The same,” he admitted gloomily. “She goes to work, but that’s it. She won’t even come over and watch a video with me.”

  Sherry made an irritating, Bronx-raspberry sound. “Maybe because you had that guy waiting the last time she did.”

  “Bailey’s a perfectly nice guy,” Jack shot back defensively. Was he the only person in Dallas who gave a rat’s behind that his sister was stuck in a solitude rut? “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Obviously, Tess doesn’t want your help,” Sherry pointed out patiently. “But here comes someone who does.”

  The someone wore thick-rimmed Elvis Costello glasses and had shoulder-length dark hair. Pulled back by some headband contraption.

  Normal size, normal height. About his age.

  Hard to tell about her body—a white lab coat billowed over something dark and baggy. Not that her shape mattered, of course.

  Jack rose to his feet as the woman approached.

  “Melinda, allow me to introdu—” Sherry began.

  “Jack Halloran,” he interrupted, frowning at his friend. Enough with the polite manners. Couldn’t she see this woman was at the end of her rope?

  It didn’t take Hercule Poirot to detect the bone-deep fatigue in the sag of her shoulders, the droop at the corners of her mouth. The way she propped her hands in the pockets of her coat. The way she just stood there, staring at him.

  “Jack, Dr. Melinda Burke,” Sherry finished dryly.

  “Pleased to meet you,” the woman said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Me, too,” he responded impatiently but she remained motionless. “Dammit, woman—sit down before you fall down!” he suggested. Okay, maybe he sort of shouted it, but only because she was actually swaying on her feet. Damn—she did need a caretaker.

  Sherry chuckled softly.

  The glasses winked at him a few seconds longer, then Dr. Burke slid into the booth.

  Her hair gleamed like a ribbon of dark chocolate as it swung over her shoulder. Jack felt a sudden urge to touch it. Instead, he fisted his hands and quickly sat next to Downe.

  “Okay, where do we start?” Sherry asked when nobody else spoke. “Questions, I guess. Mel, do you want to start?”

  Melinda’s head jerked upward; the sudden motion made her glasses slip down her nose.

  And Jack found himself lost in twin pools of smoky jade, which revealed more than exhaustion. The green depths held desperation and a tinge of sorrow, the same things he saw sometimes in his sister’s eyes.

  Jack rubbed his jaw, then curled his fingers around his coffee cup as the waiter set it down and whirled off. Dammit, maybe he couldn’t force his sister into resuming her social life, but he could, he would help this doctor stay functional for the next few months while she finished her training deal.

  “Well,” Sherry said with a chuckle, “I see Halloran’s made up his mind. That leaves you, Dr. Burke. Will you take this man to be your short-term wife? To feed and shelter while he dusts and launders?”

  “Food, shelter and health insurance,” Jack corrected.

  Melinda nodded. “Sherry told me your…ah, conditions. As a spouse, you’d be covered under the fellowship program’s group policy,” she assured him, pushing her glasses up again as she spoke.

  “That works,” Jack said, then they all sipped their coffee in silence.

  Mel knew she should take the time to question the man thoroughly and check some references, but hello!—that’s why she was actually considering this wacko idea: she didn’t have time for normal activities!

  She did need a wife. And what a deal if it looked like Jack Halloran.

  The guy was a certified stud! Tall—six-two, maybe. Lean, rangy build: linebacker’s shoulders, six-pack stomach, trim hips. Firm jaw, chiseled mouth. Thick, well-cut hair—brown with golden highlights. Man, even the Martin Sheen cowlick above his left eyebrow, making a strand of hair shoot straight up from his hairline, was sexy.

  And those deep-blue eyes. Like those shoes Elvis didn’t want anyone to step on.

  Melinda imagined herself gazing into those glorious, sensual eyes while she coolly told their owner to mop the kitchen floor or wash a load of clothes.

  Hmm. Now that she thought about it, Jack Halloran looked more like the trophy-wife type. High maintenance. Completely not the point.

  “A maid. That’s what I need. Not a wife.” Mel fumbled for her purse while the other two sat frozen. Okay, she was chickening out, but come on—how could this harebrained scheme work? “I’ll just…call a service.” Scooping up the criminal-lawn notice with one hand, touching her pocket with the other to make sure she still had her beeper, she scooted toward the edge of the banquette. “Sorry I wasted your time.”

  “No.” With the kind of natural grace that had always eluded her, Jack unfolded his athletic body and came around to block her exit as he shook his head gently.

  She caught a whiff of some understated, woodsy cologne. “Excuse me?”

  “You need more than just standard housecleaning services,” Jack informed her, his eyes mesmerizing. “You need somebody—me—to handle everything you don’t have time for. Like, ah…cook and, ah…do windows and…stuff.”

  “You’d pay the bills?” she asked, feeling tempted. Very tempted. “Clean the pool?”

  “Sure. Yeah. All that stuff. Rotate tires, trim shrubs, change lightbulbs.” His voice was deep and soothing, the list almost erotically hypnotic. “Whatever you need. I’ll even bring you coffee in bed.”

  Her favorite fantasy. “You’d do that?” she asked, tempted again. Sorely tempted. “I have to be up by five.”

  “No problem,” he assured her. “I’m a morning person.”

  “What about sex?” Sherry croaked after a brief coughing fit, then held up her hands when Jack and Melinda turned to stare at her. “Hey, just trying to help. Thought you’d want everything settled up front.”

  Melinda waited. Knowing what he would say.

  He did. “No sex. Of course.”

  “Of course,” Mel agreed. She didn’t think sex without love was all that satisfying. And she certainly had no time for love. Not yet, anyway. Maybe next year.

  “At least, not right away,” Jack added.

  Her head snapped up, leaving her glasses at the end of her nose again.

  “We can always reopen the topic for discussion later, if we change our minds.” His bored tone clearly indicated he thought that about as likely as a politician being altruistic.

  “Then it’s decided,” Sherry said triumphantly. “Unless—any more questions, Melinda?”

  Yeah. Who’s the psychotic one here? Or is it an epidemic?

  Mel looked at Jack. “How long are we talking about?”

  “Six months, Sherry said.” Jack shrugged one of those broad shoulders. “Then we bail.”

  Another question occurred to her. “How much time off do you want for studying?”

  The man waved a large, square hand nonchalantly. “We can play it by ear. I’ll get everything done that needs doing.”

  Irresistible. But…married? Not that she had anything to lose when they divorced—except half of a staggering pile of student loans. “Sure you can’t just move in and—”

  “No.” Jack’s jaw hardened as he shook his head. Obviously, the man could be implacable when he wanted to be. “Health insur
ance, remember? Besides—” he twinkled those lapis eyes at her “—I want to make a statement about gender stereotypes.”

  Melinda touched her pager. “And what exactly is your position on that?” she asked. This oughta be good.

  “If a woman can be a doctor instead of cooking and cleaning,” Jack said, his voice quiet but intense, “a man ought to be able to stay home and do housework without being looked upon as a slacker.”

  How could she disagree? Melinda thought as she chewed on her lip, trying to make a thoughtful decision. The nutcase in her head was shouting, “Do it, do it, do it!”

  Sherry stirred her coffee absently, her gaze shifting between the doctor and her potential wife. A muscle twitched along Jack’s jaw, but he sat silently. Waiting for me to make him an offer, Melinda suddenly realized.

  Well, shoot. She needed help. He was available—and way cheaper than hiring who knew how many people to do all the things she needed done. And he seemed nice. Sherry vouched for him. Aunt Gertrude’s decade of loyalty vouched for Sherry….

  “Okay,” she said, instantly light-headed at having her biggest headache removed. “Let’s go down to the courthouse tomorrow and—”

  “No!” Jack and Sherry shouted in chorus.

  “No?” Melinda shook her head to clear it. “But I thought—”

  “Well, yes,” Jack said, reaching across the table to take her hand and squeeze it gently. An odd, electrical tingle skittered through her. “I’ll be happy to marry you, Melinda.”

  For safety’s sake, she reclaimed her hand. “Then what—?”

  “No courthouse quickies,” Sherry insisted.

  Jack nodded his concurrence. “That’s no way to make a statement,” he began, then gave her a sheepish grin. “And besides—for the past ten years, for coworkers we barely know and generally don’t even like, Sherry and I have dressed up on weekends, eaten stale canapés, danced with too many drunken relatives of the bridal couple, bought enough place settings of ugly, expensive china to outfit our own banquet hall—”

  “I get it,” Melinda interrupted. “You’re talking payback, right?”

  “Right,” Jack agreed, grinning at her. It was like sunshine slicing through thunderclouds. It made her dizzy.