Cat Shaffer, Golden Heart finalist and award-winning writer.
The third book in the UNFORGETTABLE HEROES boxed set, is Cat Shaffer's Her Hired Man, a Vintage Category Romance from Turquoise Morning Press.
Her Hired Man—Hot nights, a double sleeping bag and a stranger for a husband…how much
can one city girl take? Lillian Osborne needs a husband for a weekend. Wesley
Hatfield needs money to customize his beloved classic car before Detroit’s
biggest auto show. The perfect agreement turns out to be anything but when
their accommodations turn out not to be what Lillian had expected.
Wesley Hatfield took a deep breath as Lillian Osborne
leaned across the table and pushed the two-page document toward him with one
slender, perfectly manicured hand.
“Just sign on the top line, print your name beneath
it, and we’re good.” She smiled, and Wes felt a shiver of doom run down his
spine.
He wanted to run. Man, did he want to run. He might
have done it if he hadn’t had so many reasons to sign a contract for the first
time in his twenty-nine years.
Foremost, there was his mother’s steadfast belief that
despite his stepfather’s dour predictions, he really would pull in a steady
income before he turned thirty.
And secondly, he certainly couldn’t forget Tiny
Ransome’s triple-jowled face scowling at him, a reminder that he had ten more
days to pony up for the transmission job on that classic AMC Javelin or he’d be
mighty, mighty sorry. And, of course, he’d been bragging after one too many
beers down at Smokey’s Bar and Grill that he’d take first in Detroit’s largest
custom car show next month and if there was one thing he hated, it was to lose
face in front of his friends.
“Right here.” A pearly pink fingertip tapped the page
of what might be pure gibberish for all Wes knew. He’d been too stunned being
presented with a contract to really absorb what he read. The money was all he
cared about: Three thousand dollars, more than enough to pay off Tiny and get
his 1974 Javelin back into perfect condition. To hell with the rest of it.
He gripped the pen with rigid fingers. Started
writing. Signed his freedom away. Forty-eight hours of it, anyway.
“Thank you, Mr. Hatfield.” Lillian straightened and
smiled a tight, professional smile. “Now if you’ll wait here, I’ll get you a
copy. Then you can be on your way.”
The wood-paneled conference room seemed empty after
she’d left despite the lingering scent of the best damn perfume he’d ever
smelled. She was a looker, Miss Lillian Osborne, even in a black suit with her
hair yanked back into a knot on the back of her neck. That brunette hair
gleamed under the fluorescent lights to frame a face with startling blue eyes
and a cute little nose. And those legs…only a blind man could have followed her
to this room without noticing their lanky perfection and the swing of her hips.
“Mr. Hatfield?” The receptionist who greeted him when
he walked in less than a half-hour ago spoke from the doorway. “Miss Osborne
had to take a call, so she asked me to give you this.”
She held out the stapled pages. He accepted them and muttered,
“Thanks.”
Still blocking his escape, the receptionist said, “Miss
Osborne asked me to remind you that the airport shuttle will be at your home at
2 p.m.” A short hesitation preceded the addition, “She also suggested that if
you need an appropriate wardrobe, we can arrange for items to be charged at one
of men’s stores near you.”
Oh, hell no. Faded jeans and a NASCAR tee was his
standard wardrobe. That didn’t mean he didn’t have a suit in the closet. Okay,
one suit that he wore to weddings and funerals and two white shirts, but still….
“Tell your boss I don’t need strange women picking out
my clothes.” Wes stalked toward the door. “I’ll be ready to go when the van
gets there. I signed her damn contract. Anybody who knows me can tell you I’m a
man of my word.”
****
Six hours later, as the cityscape of Lexington,
Kentucky, came into view far below, he fervently wished he were anything but a
man of his word. Flying freaked him out. The thrust as the huge plane lifted
off in Detroit, the drops and bumps of travel above the clouds and his
anticipation of the scream of tires as the plane landed were enough to keep his
white-knuckled hands tight on the seat arms all through the trip. He hadn’t
exactly lied when Lillian Osborne asked if he was all right with flying. It was
more like he hadn’t notified her that this would be his first time.
He wasn’t about to let her know he’d sooner chop off a
toe as soar above the ground. He’d never aspired to sail above the clouds. He
was a rubber hits the road kind of guy. He preferred to be a man in control of
his own destiny as he was behind the wheel of the Javelin. No one could blame
him for being nervous about giving strangers responsibility for his life thirty
thousand feet up in the air.
He found out soon enough that Lillian didn’t share his
concern. They’d no more than left the runway when she fell asleep against him.
Her head tipped over and her soft body wedged against him as she shifted in her
sleep. While she napped, he tried to figure out just when someone else took
over his life.
As close as he could tell, it had been sometime
between seven this morning, when his old buddy showed up on his doorstep, and
four minutes after ten, when he signed that damned paper of Lillian’s instead
of ripping it up. The one thing Wes had sworn never to do was sign on the
dotted line. No way was he going to end up like his old man, dead of a heart
attack at forty-three with nothing to show for a life’s work but a stack of
debts and a little bit of burial insurance. Nope, Wes wasn’t about to sell his
soul like that. He planned to remain his own man.
He didn’t mind work, provided he got to do it his way.
As long as it was legal, he’d do anything. Mow lawns, lay bricks, roof garages,
whatever it took to keep body and soul together while he laid the groundwork
for his dream. Even before he got behind the wheel for the first time, he knew
what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to buy classic muscle cars,
restore them and sell them to people who loved them as much as he did. If it
meant pretending to be somebody’s husband to get his custom auto business off
the ground, so be it.
He’d been buying, rebuilding and repainting wrecks for
four years now, and he knew he was on the verge of hitting it big. The biggest
car show in Detroit was twenty-seven days away, and if he could walk away with
top prize, his hardscrabble days were over.
And maybe his mother would finally understand why
college wasn’t for him. He’d made good enough grades in his year of community
college but he’d felt like a trapped animal in those classrooms. Mom hadn’t
been happy when he dropped out, but she felt better when he landed a
nine-to-five, white-collar job.
He managed to sock away most of his pay and even drew
up a plan for his restoration business that would satisfy any bank loan
officer. Then came the double whammy. The economy went bust and so did his job,
and Mom’s cut in hours led to her falling behind on her mortgage. He loved his
city, he loved his mother and that nest egg managed to keep the wolf at bay.
But it was inching closer to his door again. He was
betting his future on the Javelin. If it meant tolerating this woman for a
weekend, so be it.
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