LITMIR.BIZ

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seen him as anything more than a surrogate kid brother. It had taken both a stint in college and his stepbrother Jesse marrying Meggie for him to let go of his youthful obsession.

      As the last of the four Bear Creek Bachelors who had advertised for wives in Metropolitan magazine, Caleb had just about surrendered all hope of finding someone who inflamed him in the same way Meggie once had. But then, out of the clear azure sky, in marched sexy Klondike Kate, piquing his interest and stirring long dormant passions.

      Was she a tourist? He knew everyone in town. She certainly wasn’t a local. Maybe she was with the magazine.

      He couldn’t stop staring at her. She sashayed over to the bar, ordered a glass of wine and started chatting up the bartender. Lucky bastard.

      Look at me, Caleb willed her. Forget that joker and look at me.

      As if compelled by his silent entreaty, she raised her head and glanced across the room.

      Their gazes clashed like lightning striking. Hot. Intense. Compelling.

      Heavy-duty.

      Her eyes widened behind the showy red-feathered mask that hid the upper portion of her face. She moistened her lips with the tip of her pink tongue and Caleb just about came undone. In an instant, his overactive imagination transported him to a world of his own making.

      She’s splayed spread-eagle across his big, king-size bed in that daring damned underwear.

      “Come here,” she invites.

      He’s out of his clothes and beside her quicker than you can melt butter in a microwave.

      She kisses him with a vital pressure, thrusting her honeyed tongue against his. Heat rushes to his groin, whetting his voracious appetite.

      He unhooks her bustier, allows it to fall open and expose her full, creamy breasts. When he growls low in his throat, she closes her eyes and softly coos, “Help yourself.”

      Bending his head, he takes one budded pink nipple into his warm mouth. She hisses drawing in a breath. Desire shoots through him. She encourages him to continue by holding his head in place.

      “Harder,” she whimpers. “Don’t be gentle.”

      Reaching down, she runs her hand over the length of his shaft, greedily signaling to him exactly what she needs. Her fingers tangle with the leather strings on his pants and she gives a series of short firm jerks that send a shower of sparks scorching through his groin.

      He is beside himself with cravings for this marvelous creature. He could take her right here, right now, with no thoughts except to quench his undying thirst for her. But he doesn’t. He wants her to be as desperate for him as he is for her.

      Hungrily, he cups her breasts together, filling his palms, so he can easily drift from one to the other with a quick flick of his tongue.

      Her moans almost send him over the edge of reason, plunging him headfirst into a world of sensation of which he has only dreamed.

      Pure heaven.

      He feels himself grow stiffer, not even realizing such hardness was possible. His brain is addled by the sweet scent of her womanhood, the luxurious touch of her hair, the heavenly taste of her skin, the hypnotic sound of her voice.

      More. He had to have more.

      “Hey, guy.” A lithesome brunette dressed as Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, sidled up to him and shattered his reverie.

      “Yes,” he replied rather curtly. Gee thanks, lady, for interrupting the grandest fantasy I’ve had in years.

      “Ooh, the dark, brooding type. My favorite.” She circled her index finger around the rim of her champagne glass and batted her eyelashes at him.

      Aggressive women had approached him many times before. Especially after he’d made it rich and even more especially after the June issue of Metropolitan had hit the stands. All too well he recognized that flint-edged expression in her eyes, and he could almost hear the cha-ching sound of a cash register echoing in her head.

      Gold digger, he diagnosed, right off the bat.

      “So, who are you suppose to be?” Elvira purred.

      “What?”

      Her gaze roved over him. “Let me guess. Zorro?”

      “No.”

      She snapped her fingers. “I know. You look like Johnny Depp in that movie Don Juan Demarco. You’re supposed to be Don Juan, the infamous Latin lover.”

      “Uh-huh.” Caleb nodded, barely glancing at the woman. He wished she’d go away and let him resume his fantasy.

      “So say something sexy to me.” She winked.

      He frowned.

      “Brooding and silent. Okay, then I’ll say something sexy to you. I really love the way your leather pants fit, if you catch my drift.”

      Great. He was lusting after Klondike Kate but he’d gotten stuck with Miss Hot-for-Your-Wallet.

      Undaunted by his lack of response, Elvira continued. “Somebody told me you’re that millionaire bachelor. Is that true?”

      “Sorry.” He shook his head. “Don’t have a penny to my name.”

      “Oh.” Her eyes rounded in alarm as if she’d just stepped in a big pile of something unsavory with her expensive designer shoes.

      And his friends claimed he was too cynical. Well, he had his reasons.

      From the beginning of this whole advertising-for-wives venture, Caleb had been reluctant to join his friends. Not that he was afraid of commitment—he did yearn for the same intimacy and happiness the ad had generated for his three buddies, Quinn, Jake and Mack. But given his family’s history of numerous weddings and divorces, stepfamilies merging and then dissolving, he was a bit leery of marrying for any reason other than true love.

      You’re paranoid, Greenleaf. Terrified of getting involved with a woman like your mother who ditches rich husbands for even richer ones. Or of winding up like your dad, down and out after two failed marriages.

      Okay, all right. Perhaps he was sensitive on the subject. And maybe he did have trust issues when it came to women.

      At age twenty-seven, he had amassed a small fortune by translating his love of the wilderness into a lucrative dot-com company that supplied indigenous flora and fauna to universities and laboratories. When he’d sold the company in the midst of the bull market and parlayed his hobby into a cool million, he’d discovered that other than impressing his hard-to-please, social-climbing mother, the money had been a hindrance rather than a boon.

      He realized too late he shouldn’t have worn the attention-grabbing Don Juan costume. He couldn’t say why he’d chosen the guise of the infamous lothario. Perhaps because he was nothing like the gregarious Spanish lover and it was easier pretending to be something he wasn’t. More than likely it was because the outfit had been fairly simple to put together.

      But if he was honest with himself he would admit the Don Juan masquerade did elicit a certain confidence in him. Something about these leather pants, shiny black boots, dashing cape, dapper fake mustache and billowy white pirate’s shirt stoked his confidence in a way he couldn’t explain. The costume served as a conduit for the darker side of his personality and dared him to act upon impulses he normally would have suppressed.

      Like the urge to glide across the room and introduce himself to Klondike Kate.

      He had never been one for casual sex, although in college he’d indulged in a few short-term flings in an attempt to douse his desire for Meggie. But the woman in red made him so darned hot that he was ready and willing and open for just about anything.

      Short-term, long-term. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get to know her.

      And, after much speculation, he was ready to call off the wife search and plunge headlong

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