Take this morning's job interview, for instance. On the way here, she'd survived an unseasonably rainy Arizona summer morning with only minor muddy spots on her sensible navy job-seeker's pumps. She'd arrived at SupraTech, Saguaro Vista's most well-known and—more importantly to Paige, most innovative and forward-thinking—high-tech company with almost fifteen minutes to spare before her interview. And she'd managed to slip into the posh ladies' room near the lobby before anyone noticed the enormous, gaping hole in her pantyhose.

Could she be any luckier?

Well, she could if she snagged this engineering job, Paige told herself. It would be the perfect finale to her years of studying, research, and preparation. It would be the cherry on top of the sundae of her intellectual career. It would be the maple-raisin-walnut cream cheese on the bagel of her lifelong academic pursuits, the caffè latte in the coffee cup of her—

No. This had to stop. She really should have taken time for breakfast this morning. Now, between her rumbling stomach and overeager imagination, food was all she could think of.

That just wouldn't do. Disciplining her thoughts toward the appointment to come, Paige propped her briefcase atop the ladies' room sink and bent to survey the damage to her interview outfit.

Rain drops spattered her navy business suit. The collar of her white blouse sagged from a combination of age and humidity. Lower, most of her knee and a good portion of her shin were exposed by the rip in her pantyhose, caused by an unfortunate encounter with one of the more jagged plastic overdue-video-rental boxes littering her roommate's car.

The car Paige had been forced to borrow, when hers had failed to start this morning.

Overall, though, now that she'd arrived, things were starting to look up. Or at least they were bound to. Soon. She checked her watch. Only a few minutes to go. With sudden decisiveness, Paige ducked into one of the stalls, peeled off her pantyhose, and stuffed them into her briefcase. That accomplished, she examined her appearance in the mirror with critical eyes.

Unfortunately, the same old Plain Jane face she was used to stared back at her. On the bright side, though, her suit and briefcase and shoes—even sans pantyhose—presented exactly the no-nonsense impression she needed to get hired at a company like SupraTech. And that was all that mattered. Once she was hired, she would be able to prove to her parents once and for all that their efforts on behalf of their only daughter hadn't gone to waste.

Buoyed by the thought—a good counterpoint to the awful naked feeling going hose-less gave her—Paige gathered her things and strode toward her future...trying not to wince at the loud clip-clopping of her heels against the tiled lobby floor.

In the SupraTech reception area, the woman behind the elegant curved desk looked up with a smile.

"Good morning," she said. "How may I help you?"

"I'm here for the open interview." Knees knocking, Paige withdrew a copy of her résumé and the classified ad she'd clipped from the Sunday Arizona Territorial. She slid both across the desk.

The receptionist read the ad. Absently, she shoved back a lustrous hank of long blonde hair, then looked up. Her gaze traveled the length of Paige's suit, then returned to her face.

"You're here for the interview?" She tapped the clipping. "This interview?"

"Of course." Paige looked at the classified ad again, just to make sure she hadn't grabbed one of her roommate's beloved 'yard sale' clippings instead. She hadn't. The ad was the same one she remembered from yesterday—the same one she'd seized on with the mysterious, unshakable certainty that this was an opportunity tailor-made for her.

Find out what's in store for you at SupraTech, it read. High-profile positions available now—open interviews to be conducted.

She skimmed over the remaining details about the dates and times. Yes, this was definitely it. Her chance to put her triple degrees in computer engineering, economics, and industrial engineering to good use. As a private, family-owned company, SupraTech didn't open itself to applicants very often. This was it. And Paige meant to take advantage of it.

"There must be some mistake." The receptionist frowned in puzzlement. "The interviews are...." She trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward a hallway and its adjacent bank of elevators.

Paige frowned toward the elevators, then caught on. "I realize I'm a little early. I hope that's all right."

"Oh, it's...fine."

The receptionist eyed Paige's interview suit again, giving it a look that made Paige wish she could tattoo her IQ on her forehead. At least then her best asset would be in plain view.

"Why don't you have a seat?" the woman asked, picking up the phone. "I'll just double-check with Mrs. Richardson."

Nora Richardson. SupraTech's founder and famous CEO. With a twinge of excitement, Paige mumbled her thanks and retreated to the seating area. She was almost in!

In an effort to hide her nervousness, she opened her briefcase and scanned her résumé, then double-checked the technical specifications she'd written for the new projects she hoped to work on if she got hired. She had several presentations all ready to go. She'd rehearsed them with her roommate just last night, between bowls of microwave popcorn and batches of double-cheese nachos with jalapeños.

Mmmm. Nachos. Unwanted visions of snack foods rose in her mind, taunting her with images of curvy, salted potato chips, chocolate chip cookies, and bowls brimful with jelly beans. Shifting in her chair, Paige blinked and focused on her papers. She might be called for her interview at any minute. She couldn't afford to be caught daydreaming...no matter how much her empty, gurgling stomach wanted her to be.

Five minutes and one caramel-dipped-apple fantasy later, the receptionist still hadn't summoned her. Enough was enough, even for the sort of well-mannered person Paige considered herself to be. Girding her courage, she tucked everything back into her briefcase and snapped it closed, preparing to assert her way into that interview by force, if that's what it took.

She hoped that wasn't what it would take.

Just as she stood, a tall, dark-haired man breezed through the lobby and past her seat. The surprise of his passing knocked Paige back onto the sofa, sending her briefcase bouncing against the cushions. She corralled it, slapped it against her lap, and looked up.

The source of her troubles had already arrived at the receptionist's desk. He leaned against it and grinned at the blonde. "Hey, Jennifer. Is she in?"

He waved his arm toward the hallway and its bank of elevators. For the first time, Paige noticed the subtle indentation of an office door at the far end of the area, and realized that it must be the target of Mr. Breezy's gesture.

"Sure, Brodie. She's always in for you," the receptionist told him. She gave him, Paige couldn't help but observe, a look much warmer than she herself had earned.

"Thanks. You're terrific." He leaned closer—Paige did, too—and said something else to 'Jennifer' in a low voice. A giggle burbled up from the blonde. Then the man tweaked one of her long curls, turned, and strode toward the doorway in question.

Halfway there, the receptionist's voice rang out again. "Hang on a sec," Jennifer warned. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"Oh, no." He skidded to a stop, swiveling back toward the reception area desk. "Don't tell me."

The receptionist nodded. "Yup."

"She's at it again?"

"'Fraid so."

"Oh, God." The sudden expression that crossed his face was almost enough to make Paige feel guilty for eavesdropping on their conversation.

Almost.

After all, nothing this dramatic ever happened to anyone like her. Not in real life.

Looking trapped, the man—Brodie, Paige reminded herself—turned in a circle. His scuffed athletic sandals scraped across the floor with the movement, and the sound drew Paige's attention all over again.

For one long, un-Paige-like moment, she let her gaze travel upward from those sandals, past a pair of appealingly suntanned masculine legs, and higher. His hot-pink and green tropical-patterned baggy shorts were hardly corporate attire. Neither were the sunglasses in his hand and the wrinkled white logo T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. But none of that really mattered. Because underneath them all was one of the most gorgeous men she'd ever seen up close.

Not even his stubbly unshaven jaw could disguise that fact. Nor could his shaggy dark hair, badly in need of a cut but somehow managing to seem stylish, all the same. He looked, Paige decided, like one of those trendily-mussed male models—all rugged angles, tight-muscled body, and world-weary attitude.

She stifled a sigh and made herself quit gawking. Men like this one, like this 'Brodie' person, never noticed her, anyway. There was no point making a spectacle of herself. Especially not when she had more important matters to attend to.

Such as her overdue interview. Newly determined, Paige tightened her sweaty grasp on her briefcase handle. Drew in a deep breath. And rose from the sofa.

The motion drew the man's attention. His face turned toward hers, and for one, startling instant she felt the force of all his considerable charisma...focused on her. The impact of it was enough to make an ordinary girl blush.

It made a self-proclaimed wallflower like Paige freeze in miserable self-consciousness. Awkwardly, she stopped halfway up, willing herself to look calm. Cool. Collected. She gave him her best attempt at a carefree smile, and straightened all the way. And then the unthinkable happened....

He walked toward her.

~ ~ ~

He hoped she hadn't recognized him, Brodie told himself as he strode toward the mousy brunette beside the sofa. As soon as women recognized him, they had a tendency to turn all glazed-eyed and giggly. Then came the whispers, the cameras for 'just one eensy-weensy snapshot,' and the napkins with lipstick prints and phone numbers. The invitations. The hotel room keys smuggled into his pockets. The pens and papers, and—when he turned down other, more tempting offers—the requests for autographs.

Brodie sighed. It was a damned pain in the ass being Saguaro Vista's answer to most-eligible-male. Bachelorhood—however much he relished it—came complete with its own set of complications. There was no doubt about it.

This woman, though, he decided as he drew closer to her, didn't look as though she had a complicated bone in her body. She also didn't look as though she'd whip out a purple magic marker and ask him to write 'To Trish, with love' on her left breast, like the redhead on his flight from Barbados had this morning. Brodie figured that had to count as something of a plus.

Especially considering the crazy idea he'd just come up with.

From behind him, Jennifer called out. "It's no good trying to sneak right back out without seeing her, Brodie. She's got 'interviews' set up for the whole week."

Brodie waved away her concerns. He wasn't the kind of guy who sneaked anyplace—especially away from his own mother, SupraTech's founder, CEO, and head matchmaker-in-chief. He was, however, the kind of guy who didn't go down without a fight. And in this instance, he'd need a sparring partner.

Someone exactly like the jumpy-looking female staring at him from the short end of the reception area sofa.

Someone like her...or someone else. Almost anyone female, under fifty, and amenable to persuasion would have worked. Unfortunately, she was the only person in the room besides him and Jennifer. She would just have to do.

Brodie moved closer, still watching her. She stared back, a goofy sort of expression stuck on her face, and took a step back. Her legs bumped against the sofa, stopping her. Automatically, Brodie looked downward. He skimmed past her dowdy dress-for-success suit, a pair of ordinary legs, and two hideous shoes that had to be doctor-ordered orthopedics. No woman of his acquaintance would have appeared in public wearing something that unfashionable unless required to—and probably not even then.

He grimaced and looked upward again, into a scared-looking face surrounded by chin-length dark hair, and almost sighed aloud. Jeez, she looked like she'd make a run for it if he so much as smiled at her.

Brodie had to try anyway. If he didn't come up with something, he'd find himself wined-and-dined by the half-dozen 'interview candidates' his mother hadlined up, as usual, awaiting his return to town. He'd have to make small talk with them all, pretend to be flattered by their interest in his family's famous company, find a way to let each of them down easy when it came time to reveal that the only one who wanted Brodie Richardson married was Nora Richardson, his wedding-obsessed mother.

For an instant, he paused, driven to a burst of indecision by the jittery way the woman shoved her huge horn-rimmed glasses higher onto her nose. Maybe it wasn't that bad, Brodie thought in a panic. Maybe his mother hadn't even lined up that many women this time. Maybe—

He looked over his shoulder at Jennifer. As though she'd read his mind—which she probably had, given the number of times they'd been through this scenario—the receptionist held up nine fingers. Then she frowned, wiggled her manicure for an instant, and raised all ten fingers.

Aaack. It was that bad.

Brodie turned back to the woman. "You're probably going to think this is nuts." It was nuts. He paused. Shoved his hand through his hair and squinted, trying to decide how to phrase the impromptu proposal he had in mind. "But I really need your help."

"My help?"

Her voice was soft. Feminine. Sultrier than he'd expected. In surprise, Brodie angled his head to take a second look at her, but all he saw was the same girl. With the same look. One that reminded him of the makeover 'before' shots in the glossy magazines his last girlfriend, Tara, had been so fond of. Plain, serious, and unsmiling.

"Yes, your help," he said, leavening the words with what he hoped was the same smile he'd heard the tabloids describe as charmingly boyish. "Okay?"

The woman blinked. She gazed over his shoulder—looking for a cue from Jennifer, he guessed—then looked into his face for the first time. He thought he glimpsed a defiant tightness in her lips, then dismissed the idea. A woman like her probably possessed about as much defiance as a plate of al dente linguini from Guido's Restaurant around the block.

"Actually...." She lowered her gaze to those ugly shoes of hers, as though they might morph into something sexy if she didn't keep a constant eye on them. "I don't think—"

"It'll only take a minute," Brodie interrupted. Suddenly, his initial impulse to come clean, explain to her about the blind-date-from-hell ambush waiting for him in his mother's office, and ask for her help didn't seem all that smart. He couldn't afford to waste time. And he couldn't risk having Little Miss Mousy bolt for the parking lot if she didn't want to play along. "Come on."

He reached for her arm. She flinched, a seemingly automatic gesture that made him frown in puzzlement. Slowing his movements a little, Brodie gave her a reassuring smile.

"You're here to see Mrs. Richardson, right?" he asked, eyeballing her briefcase—and the death-grip she maintained on it. Job interview jitters, if ever he'd seen them. Too bad she'd have to get her hopes crushed later. "For an interview?"

She looked at him suspiciously, then nodded. The action sent a tiny gleam of reflected light bouncing from her dark hair, making it seem almost lively. Appealing. Brodie caught himself wondering, inanely, what her shampoo smelled like...and then realized, almost too late, what was going on.

The pressure was making him crack. And he'd only been back in town for one morning. Obviously, he couldn't take another round of matchmaking. Not even for the sake of his mother and the positive press it would engender for SupraTech's month-long twenty-fifth anniversary celebration—his reason for returning from the Caribbean at all.

"Well, then I'm the man you've got to see," he continued briskly, taking her arm in his. As docile as he'd counted on when first seeing her, the woman let herself be led a few steps toward the banks of elevators while Brodie went on talking. He introduced himself to her—careful to omit his incriminating last name, for now—then said, "I'll introduce you to her. Right this way."

They hurried together through the lobby. Behind him, Brodie thought he heard Jennifer yell out, "You're doomed this time, 'Bull's-eye' or not, Brodie!" but by then he and the woman had already reached the corridor leading to his mother's office. He didn't have time to object to Jennifer's use of his old—and hated—nickname, or to her predictions of failure.

It was too late to turn back now.

Arm in arm, he and the woman neared the imposing oak-paneled door that guarded his mother's domain—and housed, right this minute, a month's worth of dating nightmares for Brodie. Pausing to pull himself together, he looked down at his last-minute companion, and was struck with a ridiculous urge to smooth the crown of her shiny hair. Obviously, subterfuge brought out some latent wallflower-appreciation instincts in him. It was as crazy as this whole scheme was.

He covered his unsettling impulse with a question. "What's your name?"

"Paige," she mumbled.

"Hmmm?"

"Paige," she said, a little louder this time. She stopped about a foot from the door, and darted a nervous glance at him. "Paige Mulvaney. It's all on my résumé. Here...."

She tried to tug her arm from his, obviously intent on wrestling her briefcase open and treating him to a read-through of her credentials. Brodie tightened his grasp to stop her, and was startled to feel the subtle pressure of her small breast—half-buried beneath her baggy clothes—rub against his arm. A sudden vision of a white cotton bra, pert, perfect breasts, and a wildly inviting Paige blossomed in his brain.

Unnerved by the image, Brodie grabbed for the doorknob. What was the matter with him? Clearly, there was nothing perfect about the woman standing beside him...except maybe her usefulness as a wedding-parade distraction. He had to get this over with, before he went completely crazy.

He jerked the door open. Beside him, Paige seemed to shrink, just for a nanosecond. Then she sucked in a deep breath—one Brodie felt every inch of, as her chest expanded against his biceps—and raised her chin. They were as ready as they were going to get.

Together, they stepped inside. Smiling, Brodie hugged Paige closer against him and faced the dozen or so women assembled inside the office. He caught a brief glimpse of his mother's face as she looked up from a stack of papers on her desk, registered the chill of the air conditioner she always kept precisely at sixty-eight frigid degrees, felt his insides clench with what had to be irritation at being forced to take such drastic measures. Then he shot an adoring look at the woman beside him and made the announcement that he hoped would buy him a month's worth of peace and quiet.

"Mom, everyone—" Brodie waved his free arm, indicating the ten candidates assembled in the office as well as Pierce, his mother's administrative assistant. "—I'd like you to meet Paige Mulvaney." A few seconds passed. Brodie waited, letting the anticipation build, then he squeezed her tighter. "My fiancée."