Male Order Bride Read online

  Male Order Bride

  By

  Carolyn Thornton

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  She Took Her Time.

  Her eyes moving from one man to the next, wondering which one could be Rafe. She rejected one after another. Then their eyes met across the room. He had been watching her the entire time. He was the one with the magnetic eyes that said, "It's about time you got here."

  A host of emotions assailed her. Exaltation, curiosity, delight, a pricking of anger that he had made her wait until this moment to find out who he was, and an overwhelming sense of relief that she was finally about to meet him.

  CAROLYN THORNTON, a Southern native, now lives in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Her widespread travels throughout the South and her deep-rooted interest in Southern traditions and heritage are reflected in her novels and magazine articles.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for the many letters I have received from you praising our Silhouette Special Edition series. Your comments and views have proved to be very informative and have been a great help to us in establishing Special Edition as a firm favourite amongst romance readers.

  Special Editions have all the elements you enjoy in Silhouette Romances and more. These stories concentrate on romance in a longer, more realistic and sophisticated way, and they feature greater sensual detail.

  I hope you enjoy this book and all the wonderful romances from Silhouette.

  Please continue sending your suggestions and comments by writing to me at this address:

  Jane Nicholls

  Silhouette Books

  PO Box 177

  Dunton Green

  Sevenoaks

  Kent

  TN13 2YE

  Copyright© 1984 by Carolyn Stromeyer

  Map by Ray Lundgren

  First printing 1984

  ISBN 0 340 36562 5

  Other Silhouette Books by Carolyn Thornton

  Silhouette Romance

  The Heart Never Forgets

  For Eric's Sake

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Love Is Surrender

  Pride's Reckoning

  Looking Glass Love

  Smile and Say Yes

  By the Book

  Chapter One

  Lacey Adams watched the orange ball of the sun just off the shore of the Mississippi Gulf Coast as she drove home along Highway 90. What a restful sight, she thought, so much in contrast to the hectic day she had spent in the boutique this Monday. She wanted nothing more taxing than a bubble bath and a bottle of wine as an end to the day.

  Everyone who had come into Lacey's Designs today had needed attention—nips and tucks on a pair of jeans to fit a size-seven girl into size-eleven pants, then ripping a seam on a one-size-fits-all playsuit to make it fit that one size girl it didn't. Two people in a row had come in with magazine clippings they wanted Lacey to copy, except for a pleated skirt here, no padded shoulders there and blues where the reds were, but otherwise just exactly like the clippings. Lacey had made notes and turned it over to one of her free-lance seam-stresses. More people had come into the shop today than normally came on Saturday, the busiest day. Lacey had spent the majority of her time in high-heeled spikes. That alone had worn her out.

  She had hoped to enjoy the day perched on the stool before her drawing board, daydreaming out the narrow window that overlooked the Biloxi Back Bay. Of course, it only overlooked a sliver of the bay, and only when she leaned her body over and hung from her toes from the windowsill, then craned her head due north. Still, the slant-ceilinged attic room was Lacey's favorite hideaway in the small Victorian house where she had recently moved her business. She supposed all of today's business was still a result of the publicity she had received locally on the feature pages of the newspaper. The business was nice, but Lacey had looked forward to beginning some whimsical new dress designs.

  Maybe tomorrow. She sighed as she put her directional signal on and turned into the drive to the cottage where she lived. Her eyes immediately caught sight of a bouquet of flowers sitting next to her side door.

  "The florist must have made the wrong delivery," she muttered, turning off the motor and gathering up her notebook of sketches, her purse and the briefcase of paperwork she would complete in the morning before returning to the boutique. She was in that "no-man's-land" of "no man", between relationships and liking it, and it wasn't her birthday or any celebration she could remember. "Must be for one of the neighbors," she said, juggling her possessions as she bent to look at the card.

  "Ms. Lacey Adams."

  "Humm." Lacey smiled. Don't get your hopes up, she thought. It could still be a mistake.

  She turned her key in the lock and pushed open the door with her hip. The house felt hot and musty, just like her mood. Getting someone else's flowers wouldn't help if she had to spend the next hour on the phone trying to track down the rightful owner.

  Once inside her house, she deposited her armful of papers and packages on the kitchen counter and stepped back outside to pick up the bouquet and investigate the card.

  "Lacey Adams," she read again. "My name, but it couldn't be for me. I never get flowers even when I am expecting them."

  The bouquet was mixed—pink and lavender snapdragons, white daisies, tiny purple flowers whose name she didn't know, and a mass of ferns. The envelope with her name on it was big and brown without a florist's logo. That confirmed her suspicions that the flowers were a mistake. Whoever had gone to the trouble of personally delivering them had picked the wrong name and address from the phone book.

  She opened the envelope and pulled out a card shaped in the form of a cowboy boot, then opened the boot to read: "Howdy."

  Lacey laughed. Whoever this cowpuncher was, he had an original greeting. She read further: "We haven't met, but my name is Rafe Chancellor. I'm an associate of George Bridges."

  Lacey's eyebrows went up. The flowers must be for her. She knew George, but Rafe Chancellor? What was he selling?

  She continued to read his note: "My trusted scout tells me you're a lady who likes to dance."

  Lacey frowned. When had she mentioned that to George? When, in fact, had she last talked to George? What in heaven's name was George doing giving her name to this… this… Rafe Chancellor?

  "You're in luck," the card read. "I like to dance too. Some of my other hobbies include working with horses, restoring a 1933 Chevy, listening to music and cutting the grass."

  She was convinced this man was weird if he not only enjoyed cutting grass but also admitted it. She sighed. Just when he was beginning to sound interesting, too.

  She continued reading: "There's more, but you'll have to find that out for yourself. For now, I'd like to have the privilege of calling you on the telephone to invite you for a very exciting date. If you would honor my simple request, all you will have to do during Phase One is to return the enclosed specially marked card."

  Lacey picked up the envelope and looked inside. A self-addressed, stamped postcard fluttered out.

  She smiled and continued reading: "If you decide to return the card, all you will have to do is write in your own handwriting, 'Give me a call sometime.' This will put Phase Two into action. At that point all you will have to do is to answer the phone if you are home when I call, and be prepared, at Phase Four, to say 'yes' or 'no.'"

  "Phase Four?" Lacey mut
tered, turning the card over and rereading the first part. "Whatever happened to Phase Three? What is this question I'm supposed to answer yes or no to?"

  "You will also note," the card continued, "that there is a special code which has been assigned only to you, located on the upper-left-hand corner of the card."

  "XOXOXO." Lacey laughed. Hugs and kisses. She liked his style.

  "I'll be waiting by my mailbox for your reply, and I hope it doesn't rain. Your new, hopeful friend, Rafe."

  Lacey laughed, looked again at the bouquet meant for her and reread the card. Now she vaguely recalled running into George in the grocery store over the weekend and his mentioning something about a new man in town. Rafe Chancellor. She'd have to call George about this before she returned any cards.

  Lacey ignored the svelte picture of the spaghetti-thin model lounging on a St. Thomas beach that was stuck on the door of her refrigerator as a reminder that she needed to lose a few pounds. Instead, she opened the door, browsing among the shelves. A salad would be the logical thing to eat after this stressful day, something light and non-fattening. But she didn't think she could face another carrot. Maybe a steak and potato with lots of butter and sour cream. The potato would give her an excuse to use that last bunch of chives before it wilted.

  She opened the cover of one of the unmarked containers of generic casseroles—she had cooked them sometime between last week and last year— and poked her finger into some of the concoctions to remember what they were supposed to be.

  "Yuk." She wrinkled her nose at the yogurt-and-something dip she recalled making for the last party she had given. "No wonder nobody ate this stuff." She snapped the lid back on the container and shoved it to the back of the shelf. "I need to dump that, when I get time, one day."

  The third casserole dish had much more promise, she decided, thinking that it was a funny container she had put it in before she remembered why it tasted so good. That was one of the casseroles her mother had baked for her. "This'll do for supper," she decided, pulling it out of the refrigerator and nibbling on the cold contents. "On second thought," she mumbled a few minutes later when there was hardly enough left to reheat, "better consider that a snack and dig around for something else."

  She sighed, her appetite semisatisfied, and decided she would relax with her bath first. As generally happened, by the time she got out of the bathroom her nibbling would fill her enough not to want anything else, except some wine, perhaps. Or dessert.

  As she trailed past the kitchen table, she picked up the note from Rafe Chancellor and carried it with her into the bathroom to reread in detail.

  He was direct and creative, which appealed to her own artistic tendencies. And original. He could possibly pull her out of the rut of work-work-work she had buried herself in lately. And if she sent back the card soon, they might even have a date together before she had to fly to Atlanta for the buying trip next week.

  An hour later Lacey felt emboldened enough by a glass of wine to give George a call to find out more about this friend Rafe. "George, this is Lacey Adams," she started, and continued without taking a breath, "who is this Rafe Chancellor friend of yours?"

  "Lacey! Good to hear from you. What do you mean who is Rafe Chancellor? I told you all about him the other day."

  "Obviously I wasn't listening closely enough," Lacey confessed. She had run into George during one of her mad dashes out of the house between the remodeling sessions at the new boutique. She had been intent on stocking up on yogurt and getting to the cleaner's before they closed that afternoon. She had probably answered George with all the correct responses at the time, but right now couldn't recall any of them. "What do you know about him?"

  "I first met him as a major."

  "Major what? Majordomo? Majorette? You know I don't know anything about the military and ranks."

  "Well, it wouldn't make any difference anyway," George replied. "He's retired now, at the rank of lieutenant colonel."

  "What's he like as a person?"

  "I haven't dated him," George answered, and waited until Lacey stopped giggling before he said, "but I have a helluva lot of respect for the guy. He was a helicopter pilot in Nam and is a very active, outdoorsy sort."

  Lacey wanted to sneeze just at the thought of the hay-fever attacks she had had as a youngster. Of course, she hadn't had an attack in years, but she had also stayed indoors a lot. "Is he still an aviator?"

  "I don't know," George answered. "But I do know he was a helicopter attack pilot."

  "It must take a lot of guts to attack a helicopter with those blades and all," Lacey responded, and smiled as she heard George laughing. "What's he look like?"

  "You're asking me to tell you what he looks like? I told you, I haven't ever dated the guy."

  "But you've seen him," Lacey persisted. "What's he look like? Give me a mug-shot description. Pretend I'm the police and I'm hunting for this guy."

  "We-e-ll, let's see. He's tall."

  "How tall? Taller than a breadbox? Shorter than the Empire State Building? How tall is tall?"

  "Huhhmm," George mumbled, and Lacey could picture him rubbing his chin in thought. "Taller than I. Taller than you. About six feet, at least. Probably taller, but no Wilt Chamberlain."

  Lacey nodded. She liked tall men. "How old is he?"

  "About my age, maybe older, maybe younger."

  Somewhere around forty, Lacey decided. "Gee, George, I sure am glad I didn't just have my house robbed and have to have you give a description of the burglar. What color is his hair?"

  "Oh, blond, definitely blond," George answered. "And he has a mustache. And sometimes I think his feet came with spurs built into them."

  Lacey's mind flashed back to Rafe's cowboy-boot card and the "howdy" greeting with the mention of the horses. Definitely a John Wayne type. "What else can you tell me about him, George?"

  "Well, gosh, I haven't—"

  "I know," Lacey interrupted him. "You haven't ever dated him."

  "Right."

  "But if you were I, would you?"

  "Hell yes," George said, "or I wouldn't have told the man about you. I think you two would have a lot in common."

  With his horses and her high couture, she didn't see what. "Tell me this, George."

  "Sure, anything."

  "Is Patricia there?"

  "Yeah, right here beside me."

  "Does she know this Rafe Chancellor?"

  "Sure does, had him over for dinner just last week."

  "Then let me talk to her."

  George handed the phone over to his wife, who eagerly asked Lacey what the mystery was about. Lacey told her about her chance meeting with George in the grocery store and the flowers and card.

  "He's a darling man!" Patricia raved.

  Lacey thought she had never met a "darling" man she liked before, but then, Patricia tended to use that word in every other sentence. It didn't have the same meaning for her that it did for Lacey, who had first heard it applied to Dominick.

  "So sweet and gentlemanly," Patricia continued. "Never a cross word and treats ladies like ladies. And such diverse interests! Whenever I turn around I'm hearing about something else he does. It wouldn't surprise me at all to discover that his flannel shirts really hide a Superman suit."

  Lacey laughed. "He sounds intriguing. What's he look like?"

  "Oh, tall, six-six at least."

  Lacey smiled. For Patricia's petite under-five-foot figure, that could translate as five-eight.

  "And brown hair," Patricia continued.

  "George just said it was blond."

  "George is color blind. I have to match his socks. It's light brown, maybe, or dark blond. You know."

  About the color mine used to be, Lacey decided. Somewhere between dishwater and ash. "I haven't asked, but I take it he's not married?"

  "Nope, and not looking to be. He was married, and I think that gave him enough of a taste of it to decide he doesn't want to get serious with anyone again—or at least not for a ve
ry long time—and he'll be quick to tell you that. I know," Patricia added, "because he made it clear to me, and as a married woman I didn't really feel that point was necessarily needed."

  "Perfect," Lacey said. "I'm so busy trying to get my business established that I can't afford to have a serious relationship now. And don't want one, after the last disaster."

  "That reminds me," Patricia said. "We saw that article in the paper about the new shop. Lovely picture of you."

  "I didn't think so," Lacey answered, remembering how the photographer had snapped the photo right as fifty million other things had started to happen in the shop. It was difficult to try to keep a smile on her face when one of her best clients was chewing her out over the phone about a late deadline—something that seldom happened to Lacey. "But thanks anyway."

  "I think the two of you would have a fun time together." Patricia continued to chatter away about Rafe. "He loves to dance and is excellent at it. We danced at the Military Ball not too long ago. If anything, I don't think you'll be bored with him."

  Lacey was beginning to believe that much about him.

  "Now, you'll have to let me know what happens, won't you?" Patricia asked as Lacey began to hang up. "If George is going to be matchmaking, I have to know all the details."

  "I'll let you know," Lacey replied, and hung up.

  She carried Rafe's note over to the kitchen table and sat down with the self-addressed, stamped return card. She picked up a pen and thought about what she would write. For one evening, at least, she was certain they would have plenty to talk about. If they didn't like each other after that, it was only one evening they each would have invested out of curiosity.

  "If you decide to return the card, all you will have to do is write in your own handwriting, 'Give me a call sometime.'" She reread the note. That wasn't too original. If he had gone to all of this trouble just to ask for her permission to call, the least she could do was give him a somewhat livelier reply.