In Want of a Wife

Liz Berkley woke up at five on a Thursday morning so that she could be first in line at an estate sale, but someone had beaten her to it.

Her first clue was the shiny gray SUV already parked on the grass beside the long driveway. After pulling her own small, inexpensive sedan beside it, she encountered her second clue—the figure of a man on the front porch near the door.

She scowled.

She’d gotten up before dawn to be first in line. She’d been going to estate sales for her family’s antiques business for seven years now—ever since she’d been eighteen years old. She knew that arriving at a sale of this size and quality at six in the morning always allowed her to be first in line.

What the hell was that man doing here?

He better not be trying for her Brandt paintings.

Since the oil paintings were the only items of real value at this sale—at least as far as could be discerned from the listing—it was likely that he was after the paintings.

And he’d gotten here first.

The man didn’t turn around as she approached the house. He made no sign that he’d even heard her. He was staring down at his phone, tapping out a message. He was significantly overdressed for an estate sale. Well-tailored trousers and an Oxford in a small gray-and-white-checked fabric. It was tucked in perfectly and unwrinkled, despite the early hour. His clothes and shoes and car were obviously expensive.

She scowled again at his back.

She’d barely formed the expression when he turned around, and she had to do some quick rearrangement of her facial muscles. “Good morning!” she said brightly, giving him a smile that was as sincere as she could muster.

It wasn’t his fault that she had an overly competitive nature and a constant, low-level anxiety about the financial struggles of her family’s business. She’d still be in the first group of numbers to be admitted into the house. The company handling this sale was solid, but they always priced original paintings too low, so this was her best chance of getting her hands on Brandt paintings at a price low enough for successful resale. She could get to the paintings before him. She wasn’t going to hold it against him that he’d somehow arrived first.

The man’s eyes made a quick route from her face and down her body. She was dressed casually in jean capris and a cute top and cardigan. He wouldn’t be able to tell that every piece she wore had been bought on clearance. She couldn’t tell from his expression whether he liked how she looked.

“Good morning,” he said. He didn’t return her smile.

Fighting a prickle of annoyance at his unfriendly expression, she kept her voice cheerful. “You got out here early.”

“So did you.”

With the same sober expression, the man scrawled a number on the top sheet of a pad of sticky notes and handed the note to her.

Two.

She was Number Two.

She was used to being Number One.

The man clearly knew what he was doing since he’d brought the pad of sticky notes. She had one in her small purse since she was normally the one to pass out street numbers.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” she said, trying once again to be friendly. Since they were going to be standing here for a couple of hours, they might as well chat.

“No.”

Her attempt not to scowl again—right in his face—made her jaw sore. A normal person would have added a little more to the conversation, given her something to respond to.

She wanted to know who this guy was and what he was doing here.

He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He had steel-gray eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong chiseled jaw. He was about five inches taller than Liz’s five seven, and he had a straight posture and a very fine pair of shoulders.

He was one of the best-looking men she had ever seen.

That recognition and the bone-deep attraction that came with it vied with exasperation in her mind. It wasn’t clear which would predominate.

She waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Annoyance was quickly subsuming her visceral appreciation of his appearance.

“I’m Liz,” she said with a smile, holding her hand out to him. She was going to make him follow the basics of civility whether he wanted to or not.

He slowly reached out and shook her hand, his eyes observing her with a quiet scrutiny she didn’t understand. His hand was big and warm.

Her eyes widened as she waited several seconds and wondered if he was actually refusing to return the introduction.

Then finally he said, “Vince,” just before he dropped his hand.

Vince.

She was hit by another wave of attraction as his eyes held hers. The man was way too good-looking. It wasn’t entirely fair. That kind of sexiness could be a weapon when left in the wrong hands.

“Do you go to estate sales a lot?” she asked, trying to think of a natural topic of conversation instead of standing there drooling over him.

“Not if I can help it.” His tone was dry. Just shy of bitter.