Wife for Hire (2 page)

“I was always good enough to get picked up in the draft, but never good enough to make final cuts. When that didn't work out, I bounced around for a while, trying to find something else that interested me. I guess I looked pretty shiftless to the folks in Skogen. Finally I decided to go back to school. I went to the University of
Vermont and studied agriculture and business, but I never graduated.”

The grin he'd been holding back finally broke through. “Exams were always at the beginning of fishing season, or when there was good powder on Mt. Mansfield. It didn't seem right to waste good powder just to prove I knew something.”

She nodded sympathetically; she'd often had similar sentiments.

“Most people think I have an irresponsible attitude,” he said.

“I suppose it depends on what you want out of education. If you want the knowledge but don't need the grade, then you can go skiing at exam time. Of course I'd never stand for that baloney from one of
my
students.”

“I didn't actually skip
all
my exams. We had a lot of rain for the first two years. Anyway, everybody in Skogen thought I was just wasting time and money, except for my Granny Mallone. She owned acres and acres of rolling fields that weren't being used for much of anything, and she let me come in and plant apple trees. I've got only one oar in the water, but I know there's a market out there for good organic food.”

He forked in a mouthful of french fries. “My Granny Mallone died last year, and she left me her house and the orchards. The apple trees are finally maturing. I need to build a cider press and some sort of bottling plant, and I need a better facility for baking. I could eliminate almost all waste from my orchards if I produced more apple products.”

“I think it sounds terrific, but I don't see what this has to do with me.”

“You're going to make me look respectable, so I can get a loan to expand. You're going to get Linda Sue Newcombe off my back. And Holly Brown. And Jill Snyder…” He saw her mouth fall open. “I've had some bachelor ways,” he explained. “But that's all in the past.”

Maggie rolled her eyes.

“It's a small town,” he said. “The people are fine, but they're stubborn, and it's damn hard to reshape opinion. I like growing apples, and I want to make a living at it, but I'm going to go down the drain if I don't get money from somewhere. I've been turned down for a loan once, but the bank has agreed to reconsider their position after the fall harvest. You help me look like I'm married and settled, and I'll help you write a book.”

“Why don't you marry Linda Sue Newcombe or Holly Brown?”

Hank sighed and slouched back in his seat. “I don't love Linda Sue or Holly. I don't love Jill Snyder or Mary Lee Keene or Sandy Ross.”

Maggie was beginning to feel peevish. “Just how many women have you had traipsing through your granny's house?”

He saw her wrinkle her nose in annoyance and heard the alarm bells go off in his bachelor brain. “You're not going to start making wife noises, are you?”

“Listen here, Hank Mallone. Don't you think for one minute you're going to go running after every skirt in Skogen while I sit home playing the pitiable wife. I have some pride, you know.”

Yes sir, she was definitely going to make his life hell, Hank thought. She was going to sink her teeth into this wife thing. She was going to make him put down the lid on the toilet seat and stop putting empty milk cartons back in the refrigerator. And worse, she was going to tie him in knots. She was going to stand naked in his shower with a big Hands Off tattooed across her delicious bottom. She was going to show up for breakfast every morning in a
T-shirt and no bra, and his insides were going to turn to liquid. He had to be crazy to even consider this harebrained scheme.

“One more question,” Maggie said. “Why did you come to New Jersey for a wife?”

“Last year I attended a six-week workshop on entomology at Rutgers. I figured I could say the romance started back then. And I'll be honest with you, I want someone who is far enough away not to be a burden or embarrassment when this arrangement is terminated.”

“Lucky me.”

Damn. Now she sounded mad. “No need to take it personally.”

She sank her teeth into her burger, and chewed it vigorously. She didn't like being dumped into the possible burden category. It was practically implying that she would fall in love with him, or be a social buffoon.

“Why would you automatically assume your hired wife would be a burden or an embarrassment.”

“It's just a worst-case scenario.”

“Well, I can assure you, I won't be a burden or an embarrassment.”

“Does that mean you still want to be my wife?”

“I suppose so. As long as I don't have to iron.”

“I've hired a house keeper. She's a little old, but she seems capable enough. She answered an ad I ran in a Philadelphia paper.”

Now that it was settled, Maggie felt a rush of excitement. She was going to live in Vermont, and she would have time to write her book. Her eyelid had almost entirely stopped twitching, and the soles of her feet practically buzzed with the desire to get moving.

“When would you like me to start my wifely duties?”

“How soon can you get packed?”

She thought about it for a minute, calculating what had to be done. She had to notify utilities, the phone company, the newspaper boy. It might take a while to sublet her apartment, but she could put it in the hands of a realtor. “A week.”

A week seemed like a long time to Hank. She could change her mind in a week. She could find another job. She could fall in love and get married to someone else. “I'm kind of in a rush to get a wife on board,” he said. “Do you suppose we could shorten that to tomorrow?”

“Definitely not.”

“You aren't one of those stubborn redheads, are you?”

She hated being called a stubborn redhead—mostly because she knew it was true. “I'm not a stubborn redhead,” she said. “Tomorrow is totally unreasonable.”

“Okay, day after tomorrow.”

“I'll need three days minimum.”

“Fine,” Hank said. “Three days.”

It was raining when Maggie and Hank reached the Vermont state line at four in the afternoon. Two hours later Hank left the smooth superhighway running north-south and turned onto a secondary road. The secondary road quickly narrowed, winding its way around foothills, slicing into the heart of tiny towns and national forestland.

Water sluiced off the side of the shoulderless road, and rain ran in rivulets down the windshield of the old maroon pickup. Maggie anxiously squinted through the steamy windows, eager to take in all of Vermont.

It didn't matter that it was pouring buckets, that the sky was leaden, that the pastureland had been churned into viscous mud by the holsteins standing in small, sullen herds. It was all new and wonderful to her. No Markowitz
Coat Factory, no little brick houses with jalousies, no one watching from parted drapes to see what crazy Maggie Toone was up to.

“Are we almost there?” she shouted over the clattering engine and drone of rain on the roof.

“Two miles down this road and we'll be in Skogen. Then it's just three miles farther.”

They hit a pothole and Maggie braced herself against the dashboard. “I think you need new shocks.”

“I needed new shocks a year ago.”

“And do you think the motor sounds funny?”

“Valves,” he said. “The valves are shot.”

“I should have brought my car.”

“We've been all through that. You drive a sports car. No one's going to think you've turned me into a paragon of virtue and hard work when you go zooming around in a flashy red toy.”

Houses stood back from the road with increasing regularity. They passed a forbidding yellow brick building labeled Skogen Elementary School, and suddenly they were rattling down Main Street with its large white clapboard houses and tidy lawns.

It was a classic New En gland town, dominated
by the Skogen Presbyterian Church, its white wooden spire punching heavenward through the rain. Big Irma's General Store was on the right, hunkering behind two gas pumps and a sign advertising live bait and fresh pies. Then came Keene Real Estate, Betty's Hair Salon, Skogen Sandwich Shop, Skogen First National Bank and Trust. That was the extent of the town.

The business district was left behind as the maroon truck pushed on. The land became more rolling, and the first of the apple trees appeared.

Hank turned into a private road that wound through the orchard. “You can't see the house from here because it's down in a hollow, but it's just past that hill ahead of us.”

Maggie leaned forward and wiped at the windshield with the heel of her hand. She peered through the smeary circle she'd cleared, and gave a gasp of approval when the big white house came into view. It was just as she'd imagined. A gray slate roof, slick with rain, two stories of clapboard with lots of windows and a wide wraparound porch. A big black dog lay on the porch: Its head rose when the truck crept into the drive. Maggie could see the thick black
tail begin a rhythmic thump on the wooden porch floor.

“That's Horatio,” he said. “Man, it's good to be home!”

Maggie gripped the plastic cat carrier on her lap more firmly. “You didn't tell me about Horatio.”

“We're buddies. We do everything together.”

“He doesn't chase cats, does he?”

“Not to my knowledge.” He had scared the bejesus out of a few rabbits, Hank thought. And once he caught a squirrel. But as far as he knew, Horatio didn't chase cats.

“Fluffy has always been an apartment cat,” Maggie said. “She's never seen a dog. She's really a sweetie pie.”

Hank gave the cat carrier a quick glance from the corner of his eye. Fluffy, the sweetie pie, was making unearthly growling sounds that had all the little hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end. “She sounds…annoyed.”

“Don't worry,” Maggie said into the cat carrier. “We're going to get you out of there right away. I'm going to take you into the house and feed you a nice smelly can of cat food.”

By the time Hank had stopped the truck, Horatio was wagging his tail so hard his whole
body was in motion. Hank opened the door, and the dog vaulted off the porch. He hit Hank at a flat-out run, planting two huge paws on Hank's chest. Both of them went down in the mud with a loud splat and a grunted expletive.

Maggie looked over and grimaced. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Hank said. He was spread-eagled on his back in six inches of brown muck. Horatio stood with his paws still on Hank's chest. “I'm just dandy.”

She searched for something positive to say. “He sure seems happy to see you.”

This is nothing, Hank thought. Wait until he gets a load of Fluffy.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

The rain was pouring now and she had to shout to be heard. Hank was entirely soaked, and coffee-colored water was swilling around his pants' legs.

This had to be one of the worst ideas he'd ever had, Hank thought. He wondered if he rolled back onto his stomach and plunged his head into the puddle, would it be possible to drown himself? At the moment it seemed his most pleasant option.

He looked up into Horatio's face and took
solace. At least his dog thought he was wonderful. What Maggie Toone thought of him was beyond imagining. He definitely wasn't at his masculine best.

“Why don't you and Fluffy go on into the house, and I'll be along. The door should be open.”

Maggie nodded and slipped out of the truck, clutching the animal crate. She moved as fast as she could, but she was drenched by the time she reached the porch. Rain dripped from the tip of her nose and off the ringlets at the side of her face. She removed her shoes and stepped into the foyer.

“Hello,” she called, expecting the house keeper he'd promised. But the house was dark and empty. A momentary stab of fear raced through her. What if there was no house keeper? What if it had been a ploy to get a woman alone?

That was ridiculous, she told herself. The employment agency had thoroughly checked out Hank Mallone's background, and they'd assured her he didn't have a criminal record. Hank Mallone was exactly what he appeared to be, she told herself. But she wasn't sure that was comforting.

Hank stood at the bottom of the porch stairs
for a moment, letting the rain wash over him, removing the larger chunks of mud. He stepped under the protection of the porch roof, wiped the water from his face, and shook himself like a dog. He looked through the screen door at Maggie. Not a terrific homecoming, he thought. Her eyes were large, her lips pinched tightly together. He couldn't blame her if she was suddenly frightened and having second thoughts. He probably looked like some deranged yahoo.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I'm not as stupid as I look. I couldn't possibly be.”

“I'm not worried,” she said, trying not to let her voice waiver. “I'm really very brave. One time I picked up a snake with a stick.”

He felt a smile begin to spread to his face. Damned if she wasn't cute when she was trying to be brave.

“This is different,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “This is man-woman stuff. You're probably a little worried about being alone out here with such a smooth guy.”

Maggie giggled. Ordinarily she wasn't the sort of person who giggled, but it gurgled from her throat in a rush of relief and gratitude. “Thanks. I guess I needed reassuring.”

His gaze inadvertently dropped to her wet shirt, perfectly plastered to high, round breasts, and a pained look came over his face. Now if only he could reassure himself he wasn't a sex-starved pervert.

Because that's how he was feeling. He had mud in his ears, his briefs were waterlogged, and his shoes squished when he moved. Only a total degenerate could get aroused under those conditions, he told himself. And it wasn't just her shirt that was doing it. It was the way her eyelashes looked all spiky when they were wet, and the way the rain had brought out the scent of her shampoo.

“This is awkward,” he said. “This is the first time I've ever pretended to be married.”

He was so close, she could feel his body heat steaming off his rain-drenched clothes, and his nearness had the same effect on her as a belt of bourbon on an empty stomach. Fire roiled through her.

She took a step backward, and gave herself silent warning that she wasn't an impressionable teenager. Modern, intelligent women did not crumple into a heap of slavering goop just because an attractive man invaded
their body space, she told herself. She gave his hand a motherly pat and made an effort to bring the moment back into its proper perspective.

“It's not so serious. It's a bogus marriage. It's temporary. I'll only be here for six months.”

“Oh yeah? What if you get attached to me? Horatio was only supposed to be temporary. Big Irma asked me if I would take him for a few days, until she found a home for him. That was three years ago.” He fondled the dog's satiny black head.

“Now he's crazy about me. I can't get rid of him. He follows me everywhere.”

He leaned a little closer to her, and the corners of his mouth tipped up into a smile. “He'd do anything to get his ear scratched.
Anything!
That could happen to you, you know.”

The man made a fast recovery, Maggie thought. One minute he was on his back in the mud, and the next minute he was teasing her.

“I'll try to control myself,” Maggie said. “If I get a sudden, overwhelming urge to have you scratch behind my ears, I'll lock myself in my room.”

Brave words coming from a woman who was already more than a little attracted to Hank
Mallone. Brave words coming from a woman who was having a hard time controlling her heartbeat because Mallone had moved a step closer and smiled at her.

She stood absolutely still, wondering if he was going to kiss her. Six months could be a long time if the relationship grew uncomfortable. And his track record wasn't encouraging. His past was littered with discarded female bodies. Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud droning noise drifting through the open door.

Horatio's ears perked up, and Hank turned to look outside. “Sounds like a car.”

“Doesn't sound like any car I've ever heard,” Maggie said.

The sound was low and throaty—a powerful motor guzzling gas through double carburetors, its life's breath resonating through a thirty-year-old exhaust system. It was a 1957 Cadillac, and it eased to a stop behind Hank's pickup.

“Looks like a little old lady,” Maggie said.

Hank grinned at the Cadillac and the gray-haired woman behind the wheel. “That's no lady. That's my new house keeper. That's Elsie Hawkins.”

The woman jumped from the Cadillac into ankle-deep water. Her exclamation carried to the house, and Maggie burst out laughing. “You're right. She's no lady.”

Elsie held an umbrella in one hand and a sack of groceries clutched to her chest. “Never fails,” she said. “Just when you haven't got a crust of bread in the house, it decides to rain cats and dogs.” She looked at Hank and shook her head. “You look awful. You look like you rolled in the cow pasture.”

“A small mishap,” Hank said. “This is Maggie Toone. I've hired her to be my wife.”

Elsie made a disgusted sound. “Dumbest idea I ever heard of.”

Hank unlaced his running shoes. “I agree, but I need that bank loan.”

“I'm telling you there's more here than meets the eye,” Elsie said. “Anybody can see you got a good business going. There's something fishy about your bank.”

“They're just cautious.” He peeled his socks from his feet and took the bag from Elsie. “I haven't led an exemplary life by Skogen standards.”

“Don't sound so bad to me,” Elsie said, following him into the kitchen. “It isn't like
you've spent the last five years holding up convenience stores.”

The kitchen was large and old-fashioned looking with oak cupboards and a big claw-footed table dead center. The appliances seemed adequate, but certainly not new. The room had a nice lived-in feeling, and Maggie could imagine generations of Mallones eating at the big round table. It was a kitchen that provoked images of little boys snitching cupcakes, and mothers and grandmothers working side by side to prepare holiday feasts.

“I got potato salad and cold fried chicken in the refrigerator,” Elsie said. “You two can help yourselves. I got to get out of these wet shoes.”

“So,” Hank said to Maggie, “fried chicken or a hot shower and dry clothes?”

“No contest. I'm freezing. A hot shower sounds wonderful.”

“I'll give you a quick tour en route to your room. Downstairs we have living room, dining room, powder room, kitchen. An addition has been added on to the original house. It was built as an in-law apartment when my Grandmother Sheridan came to live here after Grandfather Sheridan died. I've given it over to Elsie.”

Hank skirted around the puddles in the
foyer and led the way upstairs. “There are four bedrooms up here. I'm in the master, and I've converted another into an office. That leaves two bedrooms for you. If you like, we can remove one of the beds and install a desk for your computer.”

He motioned her into the larger of the two rooms. Their gazes met and held, and he felt his toes curling. Maggie had an energy that was refreshing. She was bright and funny and forgiving. Thank goodness for the forgiving part. He suspected in the next six months he was going to do a lot of things that needed forgiving.

“The bathroom's down the hall. Let me know if you need any help.”

And you'd better lock the door, he thought, because he badly wanted to soap her back. He wanted to get her warm and relaxed and content.

Then he scolded himself. This was a bogus marriage. Fake bridegrooms don't get bathtub privileges. And decent men don't take advantage of women employees. The only question left to resolve was the extent of his decency. Ordinarily he liked to think of himself as an honorable person, but at the present
moment he felt desperate enough to sacrifice a few principles.