The Playboy's Plain Jane Read online

  CARA COLTER

  The Playboy’s Plain Jane

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  To my daughter-in-law, Crissy Martin,

  A true original,

  Funny, sensitive, spunky, beautiful

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “…AND I THINK a few lilies,” Mrs. Johnson said sadly, “Gertrude did love lilies.”

  Katie’s eyes slid to the clock. Nearly one o’clock. She couldn’t very well stop midorder—especially for something as sensitive as a funeral wreath—to go look out the window. But when Mrs. Johnson had come in a full ten minutes ago, she had indicated she was in a hurry. They should have been done by now!

  Aware of a certain despicable powerlessness, Katie set down her pen. Well, she did own The Flower Girl, after all. She was the boss. If she wanted to go look out the window, she could do that!

  “Excuse me for just a sec,” she said. “Something in the window, um, needs my immediate attention.”

  Ignoring Mrs. Johnson’s bewildered glance toward a window that held an eye-catching display of nonattention-needing spring bouquets, Katie stepped out from behind the counter, walked swiftly to the window. She toyed with a vase of bright phlox that represented the new hopes and sweet dreams of the coming of spring.

  Right on time, the man she despised more than any other rounded the corner of First Street, onto Davis. Dylan McKinnon was coming fast, a man who would have scorned the word jogging. He was running flat-out, arms and legs pumping, his dark hair wind ruffled.

  She felt the bottom fall out of her stomach. Today he was wearing a hooded black jacket, with no sleeves, the absolutely perfect outfit for a man with muscles like that. His arms rippled with easy strength, the line of his triceps, hard cut and sweat beaded, did a funny thing to Katie’s breathing.

  The jacket was designed to show off his attributes, obviously. As were the shorts, showing the perfect line of legs that were strong and hard with lean male muscle.

  Pathetic, she chided herself, knowing darn well it was not Dylan McKinnon she despised, but her own weakness.

  He was trouble with a million-dollar grin, but it just didn’t make him any less bewitching.

  His hair, the rich dark color of espresso, was a touch too long. It made her think ridiculous thoughts of the long-ago Scottish warriors who, with a name like McKinnon, had been Dylan’s ancestors.

  He had a strong nose, and a faintly clefted chin, high cheekbones that were whisker roughened today. And stamped across those perfect, breath-stealing features was an expression of fierce determination, an almost frightening singleness of focus.

  His eyes, framed with a sinful abundance of black, soot-dipped lash, and bluer than the sky right before the sun faded from it, had that look of a man who was looking inward to his own strength, as well as outward at his world.

  Katie hated how she loved to watch him run, but Dylan McKinnon wasn’t the most eligible bachelor in Hillsboro, Ontario, for no reason.

  Don’t stop, she silently begged as he slowed near her window. She pulled back so that he wouldn’t see she had watched, darted for the counter as she read his intention to come into her store. He opened the door just as she managed to get behind the cash register and slam her glasses back on her face.

  She peeked up over the rims of her spectacles at him, trying to hide the raggedness of her breathing from her unscheduled sprint behind the counter.

  “I’m just taking an order,” she said, no-nonsense, professional. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

  The grin erased some of the warrior from his face, but the lifted eyebrow reinforced it, said as clearly as though he had spoken, No mere woman has ever kept the great McKinnon waiting.

  She pursed her lips to let him know others might be bowled over by his charms, but she was not. She did feel weakly compelled to watch his daily run, which he surely never had to know. He had to wait in line like everyone else.

  Mrs. Johnson, however, wrecked Katie’s intention to humble him. Obvious recognition dawned in her face. “Oh, no,” she said breathlessly, forgetting her hurry, “You go first, Mr. McKinnon.”

  “Dylan, please. Are you sure?” He smiled at Mrs. Johnson with chocolate-melting charm.

  “Oh,” she stammered. “Of course, I’m sure.”

  “Katie, my lady,” he said, stepping up to the counter, with his all-male swagger.

  She steeled herself against that smile. “Mr. McKinnon.”

  “What do you think of the new jacket?” he asked, just as if he hadn’t jumped the line, just as if he wasn’t taking another customer’s time.

  She glanced at it, saw close-up the way it showed every line of muscle in his arm, and gulped. As she dragged her eyes back up to his face, she saw the distinctive red Daredevils emblem on his chest. When she met his eyes, she was pretty sure he was conceited enough to know exactly what she thought of his new jacket. Now she wouldn’t have given him the pleasure of telling him, even if there were goblins waiting in the back room to cut out her tongue if she uttered a lie.

  “I would think, by definition, a jacket should have sleeves.”

  He frowned at her. “It’s a running jacket. You want your arms free when you run. Plus, you don’t want to overheat. Our engineers designed it. It’s going into production next week.”

  “It has a hood,” she pointed out.

  “Uh, yeah?”

  “So, your head might get cold, but your arms won’t?”

  He scowled at her. “Part of the reason it’s designed without sleeves is the sweat issue.”

  “Sweat?” she echoed, hoping it didn’t sound as if she was saying a dirty word.

  “It’s easier to clean an undershirt than the whole jacket.” He unzipped, as if he was actually considering demonstrating, and it seemed as if her life had reached a new low. She was discussing undershirts with Dylan McKinnon.

  She held up her hand before he managed to get the jacket off, and he lifted his eyebrows at her, faintly mocking, as if he had guessed she was too long without a man and given to swooning.

  “Well,” she said brightly, trying to hide her wild discomfort, “what can I do for you today?”

  “Katie, my lady, I need you to just send a little something to, uh—”

  “Heather,” she said stiffly.

  He grinned. “Yeah, Heather. Thanks.”

  “Message?” she asked.

  “Uh—”

  Katie rapidly calculated in her head. This was Heather’s third bouquet. “Something like, Sorry I forgot?” she prompted him.

  If he was the least contrite that his fickle heart was so predictable, he did not show it. He nodded, grinned at her with approval. “Perfect. Oh, and maybe send a little something to Tara, too.”

  Since his time with Heather was drawing to a close, she guessed cynically. Tara was always on the back burner. Poor Tara. Poor Heather.

  He turned, gave Mrs. Johnson a friendly salute and went out the door. The flower shop, which had seemed cheerful and cozy only moments before, seemed faded and gray, hopelessly dreary, as if he had swept every bit of color and energy out of the room with him.

  “Was that really Daredevil Dylan McKinnon of the Toronto Blue Jays?” Mrs. Johnson asked, wide-eyed.

  Dylan McKinnon had not thrown a baseball in mo
re than five years. In fact, in Katie’s opinion, he had managed to parlay the shortest career in professional baseball in history into quite a bit more celebrity than he deserved.

  “None other,” she said reluctantly.

  “My,” Mrs. Johnson said. “My.”

  Young. Old. Whatever. Dylan McKinnon simply had that indefinable thing that made him irresistible to the opposite sex.

  Pheromones, Katie told herself. He was emitting them with his sweat, a primitive, silent mating call that commanded a woman to choose the biggest, the strongest, the toughest. When he was that handsome, as well, the average woman had very little chance against him. For one with at least a modicum of brains, however, there was no excuse. Though there was no telling what would have happened if he had managed to get the jacket off!

  Weakling, she berated herself silently. Outwardly she said “Now about Gertrude’s wreath. What kind of lilies—”

  “Does he live around here?” Mrs. Johnson asked eagerly. “My granddaughter is a great fan.”

  If you love your granddaughter, keep her away from that man. “I don’t think he lives around here,” Katie offered stiffly. In fact, the head office for his wildly successful sporting goods line was located behind a discreet bronze plaque that read McKinnon two doors down, but Katie saw no reason she should offer that. She’d never be able to find a parking spot if the location of the daredevil’s office and empire became public knowledge to his rabid fans.

  “Gertrude’s flowers?” she prompted.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Since she liked lilies, what would you think of lily of the valley?” Katie asked. “They signify a return to happiness.”

  “Oh, my dear, that is so lovely. Thank you. One of the reasons I shop here is because you know these things.”

  In Victorian times, people had always associated meanings with flowers. Katie, as the flower girl, knew those meanings and loved working them into her arrangements.

  “It will be a beautiful wreath,” she promised. Already she could see the lilies woven together with babies’ breath.

  But she could also see Heather Richards’s bouquet. Perhaps a few snapdragons scattered among yellow roses. A warning of deception and a decrease in love—not that a woman like Heather was ever going to get the meaning.

  Like most of the women Dylan McKinnon showed interest in, if they hadn’t had celebrity status before they showed up on his arm, they certainly did after. Heather, however, had held minor celebrity status before, as Miss Hillsboro Bikini. Katie would send some azaleas to Tara: take care of yourself.

  “Dylan seemed to know you,” Mrs. Johnson said, almost as if her mind had drifted right along with Katie’s. And right back to him. “He did call you Katie, my lady.”

  “Mr. McKinnon is a very good customer.”

  “I think it’s very sweet that he has a pet name for you.”

  “Well, Mr. McKinnon is a man who has being sweet to women down to a fine art.” And she should know. She had been handling his flower orders since she had opened her shop two doors down from him, just over a year ago.

  She didn’t want to be mean-spirited about it, because Dylan McKinnon had always been nothing but charming to her. He had charm down to a science: when she was in the room with him it was hard not to give in to the heady sense that she was the only girl in his world, that he truly cared about her, that he genuinely found her interesting.

  But, of course, that was precisely why he could get any woman he batted those amazing lashes at. Besides, he was one of her best customers, and he didn’t just give her a great deal of business, but also spin-off business. Almost all his old girlfriends enjoyed the quality and imaginativeness of her flower arrangements so much that they became her customers.

  But she was sure Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t look quite so smitten—ready to deliver her granddaughter in gift wrap and a bow—if she knew the truth.

  Despite the appearance of kindness, the truth could be told in the way a man ordered his flowers.

  These ones for Heather for example. It was the third time he’d ordered flowers for her. That would make this the make-up bouquet. He’d probably forgotten lunch or left her in the lurch at the opera. Perhaps a few asters, which signified an afterthought, mixed with the snapdragons and roses.

  If he followed his pattern, and there was no reason to believe he would not, there would be one more delivery of flowers—the-nice-knowing-you-bouquet—and then Heather would be history, along with the dozen or so others that Dylan had romanced.

  A dozen women in a year. That was one a month. It was disgraceful.

  And then there were the girls who waited in the wings, who received the occasional bouquet when lust-of-the-month was cooling: Tara, Sarah, Janet, and Margot. Add to that there was a special someone he chose flowers for himself, every Friday without fail.

  Sending his flowers was like having a rather embarrassing personal look at his little black book!

  It was absolutely shameful, Katie thought, that she could see through that man so clearly, despise his devil-may-care attitude with women, and still run to the window every day to watch the pure poetry of him running, still feel herself blush when he smiled at her or teased her, still feel that disastrous sense of yearning that had always meant nothing but trouble in her well-ordered life.

  Dylan McKinnon walked through his office doors, checked his watch. A mile in six and a half minutes. Not bad for a guy about to turn twenty-seven. Not bad at all. His pulse was already back to normal.

  He glanced around the reception area with satisfaction. The decor was rich and sensuous, deep-brown leather sofas, a genuine Turkish rug, good art, low lighting. A pot of Katie’s flowers, peach-colored roses that seemed to glow with an inner light, was on the reception desk. All in all, he thought his office was not too bad for a guy who had not even finished college.

  “Could you call Erin in design?” he said to the receptionist. “Just tell her I think we should consider making the hood on this jacket removable before it goes into production.” What about zip-on sleeves, since by definition a jacket had sleeves? “Actually, have her call me.”

  “All right,” the receptionist said.

  Margot was a gorgeous girl; married, thankfully. He did not date women who were married or who worked for him, clearly demonstrating what an ethical guy he was, something that would surprise the hell out of Katie, the flower girl.

  Dylan shook off the little shiver of unexpected regret he felt. What did he care if Katie’s disapproval of him telegraphed through her ramrod-stiff spine every time he walked in her store? It was entertaining, he told himself sternly. He’d thought, once or twice, of asking her out—he knew from casual conversations over the year he’d known her, she was single, and something about her intrigued—but she was way more complicated than the kind of girl he liked.

  The receptionist apologetically handed him a ream of pink message slips. “One from your dad, one from your sister,” she said. “The rest from Miss Richards.”

  “Ah,” he said, and stuffed them in his pocket. He didn’t want to talk to his dad today. Probably not tomorrow, either. As for Heather, okay, so he’d missed her last night. She’d wanted him to go to a fashion show. Real men didn’t go to fashion shows. He’d implied he might attend to avoid sulking or arguments, but he’d never promised he would accompany her. Apparently he had only postponed the inevitable.

  He’d gotten in from the sports pub that he was a part owner of to see his answering machine blinking in a frenzy. Each message from her; each one more screechy than the last.

  Heather was beginning to give him a headache. Right on schedule. How come girls like Heather always acted like, well, Heather? Possessive, high maintenance, predictable.

  Predictable.

  That’s what he was to Katie, the flower lady. He didn’t really know whether to be annoyed or amused that she had his number so completely.

  Still, how had she known what to write on that card for Heather?

  T
he little minx was psychic. And darned smart. And hilariously transparent. He had thought she was going to faint when he’d nearly taken his jacket off in front of her. She had a quality of naïveté about her that was refreshing. Intriguing. She’d told him once, tight-lipped and reluctant to part with anything that might be construed as personal information, that she was divorced. Funny, for someone who had “forever girl” written all over her.

  The fact that he was predictable to someone who was a little less than worldly, despite her divorce, was somewhat troubling.

  Rather than be troubled, he picked the least of the three evils on his messages and called Tara.

  “Hey, sis,” he said when she answered. “How are you?” He could hear his fourteen-month-old nephew, Jake, howling in the background.

  Tara, never one for small talk, said, “Call Dad, for Pete’s sake. What is wrong with you?”

  His sister was seven years older than him. He had long-ago accepted that she was never going to look at him as a world-class athlete or as Hillsboro’s most successful entrepreneur. She was just going to see her little brother, who needed to be bullied into doing what was right. What she perceived was right.

  “And for heaven’s sake, Dylan, who is that woman you are being photographed with? A new low, even for you. Miss Hillsboro Mud Wrestler? Sheesh.”

  “She is not Miss Hillsboro Mud Wrestler!” he protested. Only his sister would see a girl like Heather as a new low. The guys at Doofus’s Pub knew the truth. Heather was hot.

  “Dylan, call Dad. And find a decent girl. Oh, never mind. I doubt if you could find a decent girl who would go out with you. Honestly, you are too old to be a captive of your hormones, and too young to be having a midlife crisis. Mom’s sick. She isn’t going to get any better, and you can’t change that by racing your motorcycle or dating every bimbo in Hillsboro. And beyond.”

  “I’m not trying to change anything,” he said coolly indignant.