The Gift-Wrapped Groom

By M.J. Rodgers

What Do You Get the Woman Who Has Everything?Men? Mistletoe? Bah, humbug! Noel Winsome much preferred a homespun holiday cuddling her tiny, toe-warming terrier. But Noel's crafty old grandpa wagered he'd see the stubborn spinster properly wedded—and manfully bedded—before Santa could utter a single "ho!"And—lo!—an exotic, mail-order mate materialized to march Noel down the bridal aisle. Half Hercules, half Einstein, and as breathtaking as a Montana blizzard, magnificent Nicholas Baranov single-handedly tamed Noel's woolly Western hometown. But could even this magical, gift-wrapped groom turn their matrimonial madness into the miracle of love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781488723445

M.J. Rodgers

M.J. was one of those lucky children whose mother read to her every night, filling her imagination with the magic of brave heroes and smart heroines overcoming adversity to ensure their own happy endings. From as early as she can remember she wanted to be a writer so she could give readers that same kind of pleasure that had been given to her by the creators of those wonderful stories. But M.J. is very practical. She knew how few struggling writers were ever published-and how few of the published could support themselves by writing alone. She also understood that the best writers had extensive life experience that made their stories rich with meaning. So she set aside her dream of becoming a writer and focused instead on working hard to get the kind of education that would lead to a good job and lots of that important life experience. She attended Pepperdine University at Malibu, California, graduating summa cum laude with degrees in psychology and journalism. She received her MBA from St. Mary's college in Moraga, California. She held managerial positions in several corporations and traveled extensively throughout the world. The work was exciting and demanding; the people she met were intelligent and stimulating; the life experiences were invaluable. Yet despite all the years that had passed and the outward trappings of success that had been achieved, the dream of being a writer had never left her. And no wonder. The most important message in all those wonderful books her mother had read to her as a child-and she had continued to enjoy as an adult-was that happiness meant going for your dreams. She was now ready to go for hers. She gave up her high-powered job in the corporate world and turned her attention to writing romantic mysteries for Harlequin. But she was glad she'd waited until the timing was just right. Because to have tried to write before she could give it her best would have been a mistake. M.J. is the winner of the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for romantic mysteries, twice winner of their Best Intrigue award and a recipient of their Reviewers Choice Award for Best Miniseries Romance. She is also a winner of B. Dalton Bookseller's top-selling intrigue award. She lives with her wonderful husband, adorable cat and two loving dogs in a tiny community in the terrific Pacific Northwest until the winter, when they realize it isn't so terrific and relocate to sunny southern Nevada. M.J. loves to hear from readers via her email: [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter One

If Noel Winsome had known why her grandfather was calling her on that cold December evening, she most certainly would never have picked up the phone. And if she had had any inkling of who was with him, she probably would have given serious consideration to hightailing it over the Canadian border.

As it was, her grandfather didn’t mince words. Noel, I need to see you.

What’s wrong? Problems with the Christmas festival? The mining consortium?

Can’t discuss it over the phone, child. Need you to come at once.

William Winsome’s request was immediately punctuated by an emphatic blaring of dial tone in Noel’s ear.

She dropped the receiver onto its cradle, her forehead puckering into an irritated frown. She’d come through the door of her cozy country home a mere moment before, after a full day at her Christmas store in the village and a full-fledged verbal sparring match with that knucklehead Kurt Haag.

She was tired. And hungry. Visions of warmed-up, leftover chicken legs danced in her head.

For a moment, she played with the idea of taking time out for something to eat before responding to the abrupt summons. But her grandfather had said need, and that wasn’t a term proud old William Winsome used easily. Now the only question was, had he used it on her tonight because he truly did need to talk to her or because he just knew what button to push to guarantee her compliance?

Hard to know which with her sly old grandfather.

Still, if he needed to see her about some snafu in the Christmas festival or a mettlesome new move by the mining consortium to take over their valley, the situation was indeed urgent.

She sighed in resignation. Oh well, his ranch was but a twenty-minute drive. And among his good qualities was a penchant for brevity. If she left right away, she should be able to drive over, find out what this urgent need was all about and be back home in less than an hour.

Her stomach growled, an immediate reminder of how long an hour could be. She tried to ignore the discomfort as she looked down at Mistletoe, standing patiently by her side. Postponing her own dinner was one thing, but he’d just put in a long day, too, and she wasn’t about to make him wait.

She headed for the pantry, dogged every step by the little West Highland white terrier, who knew the pantry meant food was on the way. His fluffy white tail waved straight up, a flag caught in the wind of hungry anticipation.

Noel opened a can of Mighty Dog and spooned it into Mistletoe’s bowl on the counter. He hopped on his hind legs, his little black nose quivering excitedly, barely giving her a chance to set his bowl on the stone kitchen floor before his fluffy white head disappeared into it.

Noel listened for a moment to the loud chomping sounds coming out of her little dog before slowly, stealthily reaching a hand toward his bowl and growling. Mistletoe paused from wolfing down his food, his fluffy little body vibrating with his low, returning growl.

She laughed, delighted at this macho display by this special male with whom she shared her life. Of course, it was only display and only for this game they played. Mistletoe was a sweet little guy without a mean bone in his body. The one and only time Noel had actually slipped the dish away, his little ears had shot up and his square white head had cocked itself at her as though to ask if his growl had not been convincing enough.

She smiled as she gave one of his pointed ears an affectionate rub.

I’ll be back soon. And just so you won’t be tempted to sneak out back and go ice-skating on the frozen pond and come to bed with frozen paws again tonight, I’m locking your doggy door for the winter.

Mistletoe wagged his tail at Noel’s indulgent tone, still engrossed in his food.

I can’t believe it’s December already, Noel mumbled to herself as she rose. Where had the time gone? How could Christmas be only two weeks away?

She headed back through the living room, pausing in dismay to note how plain and bleak its pine floors and walls and simple furnishings seemed without a Christmas tree or lights or any decorations to celebrate the season. She would have to find the time this week to select a tree and get the decorations out of the attic. She just had to.

She grabbed her coat, shoulder bag and truck keys from where she’d laid them only a moment before, and with one last longing look at her cozy home, turned to go.

Outside, the arctic air slapped her cheeks with its decisive, sharp chill. It hadn’t snowed since Thanksgiving and the roads were hard and dry. She wrapped her fleece-lined coat snugly around her, tasting the clean bite of icy air on her tongue as she made her way to her truck.

A strange, purple darkness had descended on this still Montana December night—like an illusionist’s cloak spread over the dark landscape, the magician waiting for the proper moment to whip back its royal purple drape and reveal something magical for the eyes.

Noel shook away the fanciful image as the tires of her old Dodge truck crunched over the crisp gravel of her driveway. She carefully steered onto the single-lane country road, away from the lights of her modest home, thankful for the lingering warmth in the truck. The soft, eerie darkness swallowed her vehicle whole. Her favorite oldies but goodies radio station out of Missoula had just ended Santa Claus is Coming to Town and launched into the theme from The Pink Panther.

A frown drew her eyebrows together as an image flashed through her mind of the mischievous Pink Panther sporting the face of her grandfather. What if his use of the word need meant that something had gone wrong with his part of the festival? The theatrical production was a crucial element—the one that brought in the most tourists and, consequently, the most tourist dollars. The village of Midwater needed those dollars, this year more than ever. She certainly hoped that wasn’t the problem.

But if it wasn’t the festival he wanted to discuss, the problem would have to relate to the powerful mining consortium and its unrelenting attempt to take over the village and valley land. Had they been successful in convincing another family to sell? Perhaps, on second thought, she should hope the problem did involve the festival.

Damn. Why couldn’t her grandfather have told her over the phone? Not knowing what calamity awaited at his ranch only made things worse. Still, he probably guessed—and accurately—that if he’d told her the problem, she might have found a reason not to drive over. By just hinting at the ticking bomb, he knew she’d come running.

Typical William Winsome tactics. Noel sighed.

Their relationship had become increasingly strained ever since her parents’ deaths, at which point her grandfather had started poking his prominent, interfering nose further and further into her personal affairs.

Not that he sought to interfere with malicious intent. She was his only grandchild. He wanted the best for her. She knew that. But what he couldn’t seem to grasp was that this was her life. He’d be running every aspect of it by now if she had let him.

She hadn’t let him. She couldn’t. She valued her independence too much.

But it was a constant struggle. That conniving Pink Panther was devious. Give him an inch and he’d take a light-year.

Like that lamentable business on her twenty-ninth birthday the previous year. If she hadn’t been in such desperate straits—what with the bank getting ready to foreclose on her store as well as her house—she never would have accepted his help.

Noel downshifted with more vehemence than necessary as she swung the wheel into a sharp right turn, up the next country road.

It still galled her to think of the price he’d attached to that help. Imagine him thinking she’d give him the right to pick out a husband for her! He should have known that she would never agree to such nonsense.

Well, actually she had agreed. But only because the restrictions he’d put on himself and the standards he’d required this mythical man to meet had been so brazenly ludicrous and impossible.

Noel shook her head in continuing disbelief as she recalled last Christmas Eve, when her grandfather had delineated the details of his preposterous proposition in that same confident baritone he had used so successfully to win over audiences in both theatrical and political arenas.

Noel, I promise to have him for you no later than next Christmas Eve—your thirtieth birthday—or you’ll be under no obligation. And as for qualifications, you can be sure that I will match you with only the best. He’ll have to have perfect health, of course. Intelligence is of paramount importance, so I’ll insist upon a proper education—a doctorate degree should do—and an IQ of at least one-forty. That’s the minimum for genius.

What?

Her grandfather had ignored her interruption. I don’t want any short, skinny great-grandchildren, either, so he’ll have to be over six feet and muscularly built—able to bench press at least, oh say, four hundred pounds.

Four hun—

And speaking of great-grandchildren, since you represent the last of my bloodline, this husband of yours is going to have to agree that your children will carry the Winsome surname.

That’s all? Noel had managed to squeak after squandering most of her breath on a good old-fashioned belly laugh.

Her grandfather had not cracked a smile. I’m serious, Noel.

I know. That’s the funniest part.

Again, she had erupted into laughter. It had continued unabated for a full minute, during which she virtually ignored her grandfather’s deepening scowl. But his next words she couldn’t ignore.

Noel, after last year’s disaster, you can’t still be thinking that you can select the proper kind of bridegroom?

Her grandfather’s words had scored a direct hit. Her laughter came to an abrupt stop.

That subject is not—

A pleasant one, I’m sure. I didn’t bring it up to hurt you, child. But, you must admit that Cade Patterson was as poor an excuse for husband material as—

Look, Grandfather, I know you mean well. But this is my life, and I make the choices of how to live it and who to make part of it. I’ve learned from my mistake with Cade. And what I’ve learned is to never again put any faith in the empty promises of a man. Besides, what do I need one for? I have Mistletoe for companionship, Mom and Dad’s place to call home and, of course, my work at the store—

How can you say you have your home and store? You’ve been nervously twisting that bank foreclosure on both your store and your house in those hot little hands of yours ever since you arrived.

Another direct hit. But for this one, Noel had been prepared.

A temporary setback, Grandfather. The Christmas store is doing well. It’s just that a big shipment of my special ornaments was so unexpectedly lost. If Hank were still running the bank, I’m sure he would have understood and carried me until I could get on my feet again. But the mining consortium that took over the bank last year wants the back mortgage plus late charges or they’ll take everything. If you could just see your way clear to loan me enough to cover their demands and give me time to get back on my feet, I’ll pay whatever interest rate you ask and—

I’m not a bank, Noel. I’m your grandfather. I will loan you nothing. But I will give you the money outright if you just agree to accept this bridegroom I find for you.

"Just agree to accept him? Grandfather, this is the middle of the 1990s in the United States of America. Arranged marriages went out at least a century ago. How would you have reacted if your parents—or grandparents—had attempted to arrange your marriage?"

I married your grandmother at twenty, Noel, and had your father within two years. If I’d still been single at twenty-nine and spouting nonsense about not needing a spouse, then I would have hoped my parents—or grandparents—would have stepped in and done whatever it took to find me a proper mate.

Whatever it took? Noel had squinted at her grandfather, suddenly worried about what lengths her crafty old relative might go to in pursuit of this proper mate.

Grandfather, you know the unattached females outnumber the unattached males in Midwater by a hefty margin, even without all these requirements of yours, which none of the local men could come close to filling, anyway. Exactly where are you going to go looking for this mythical man?

"You only consider him mythical because you’ve been setting your sights too low. Far too low. I will find him. I don’t care where I have to go or what difficulties I might face in getting him here. I will find him, and I will bring him to you."

Noel’s squint had deepened. You’re not going to offer some guy a few million dollars to marry me, are you?

William Winsome had straightened to every inch of his six-foot-one height, run a hand impatiently over his mane of thick white hair and had disdainfully looked down his long nose at his granddaughter’s impertinent suggestion.

"You think I intend to buy a bridegroom for you, Noel? You think I would allow a man who could be bought to father the children that will carry on my name?"

Noel smiled. In a second, Grandfather. You love the control your money affords you.

Winsome’s spine had straightened into a dramatic, indignant straight line. I’m appalled you entertain such opinions of your poor grandfather!

Noel had not been fooled. She was very familiar with the various screen emotions he had perfected in his time. This one came right out of an old 1960s movie in which he had played the kindly, street-hawking Santa Claus falsely charged with retaining the money he’d collected for the poor.

"Grandfather, you haven’t been poor since you were thirty. Not that I don’t admire the hard work you put in to achieve the financial position you’ve attained. You know I do. I just don’t want to feel the clout of your money controlling my life."

All right, since the possible use of my money so bothers you, I promise I will pay for your bridegroom’s transportation to Midwater and provide his pocket expenses, if necessary. Nothing more. That should satisfy you.

Satisfy me? Nothing about this crazy proposal satisfies me. Look, even if you scour the entire country for a man fitting the intellectual and physical qualifications you’ve delineated and actually find such a man—which I heartily doubt—he certainly won’t be willing to submit to an arranged marriage, relocate to this rough, rural part of western Montana and accept the surname stipulations you’ve outlined. For heaven’s sake, you must see how impossible your task is.

If you think it’s so impossible, Noel, what have you to lose by agreeing to my terms?

What indeed, she had thought. Still, she’d hesitated. Her grandfather had never dealt a hand he couldn’t win. Did he have an ace tucked up his sleeve on this one? Certainly didn’t seem likely.

Well, Noel? Are you ready to let the mining consortium’s bank gain another foothold in Midwater by taking your store, your home, everything you’ve worked for? Or are you going to let your softhearted grandfather shoo the wolves from the door and agree to abide by his impossible search—your description—for a proper bridegroom?

Softhearted grandfather? Conniving grandfather had always seemed like a much more appropriate label to Noel. Still, she had almost said yes right then and there—that was how sure she had been of his outfoxing himself this time. Only her well-developed sense of justice and fair play—qualities that had obviously skipped her grandfather’s generation of the family tree—had intervened.

All right, Grandfather. I will agree. But only if when you fail to produce this paragon of a husband by next Christmas Eve, you allow me to pay back the amount you will have to expend now on my behalf.

I told you, Noel, I’m not a bank. I do not loan—

Grandfather, I really appreciate your offering to help out, even with this bridegroom rider attached. But I will not abrogate my independence by being beholden to you or anyone. I love you very much, you old schemer. But, you will receive both the principal and the going rate of interest by next Christmas Eve. I will not just take your money outright. To do so would be tantamount to my saying I can’t make it on my own...and I can.

Noel—

What’s wrong? If everything works out your way, I won’t be repaying you a cent. Or are you beginning to doubt your ability to come up with this bridegroom, after all?

Of course, that reverse challenge had done it, just as Noel knew it would. William Winsome did not take his courage of conviction lightly. On that he could be as stubborn as Noel.

You will agree to abide by these terms, Noel? I have your word?

You have it, Grandfather.

Despite her having given her word, Winsome had picked up the phone to contact his big-time lawyer in Helena and had arranged for the legally binding agreement—with every detail included—to be faxed for both their signatures the next day.

Just to make sure all the details are taken care of and neither of us misunderstood the other, he’d assured her with that all-too-charming smile of his.

Yeah. Right.

Still, Noel wasn’t worried. She knew what her grandfather’s chances were in this foolhardy venture. Over the past year, she had worked hard to bring her business back into the black and had diligently saved the money to repay him. In another week, she’d have it all—a full seven days ahead of Christmas Eve—her deadline.

Winsome hadn’t mentioned how his search was coming for this mythical bridegroom. He didn’t have to. The ever-increasing shortness of his temper over the past year spoke volumes to Noel. He’d reached his all-time scowling best at Thanksgiving dinner two weeks earlier. Noel chuckled at the memory of his silent glower when she’d asked at the dinner table—with absolutely no attempt at innocence—if he wasn’t happy that the Christmas season had arrived so soon.

Noel chuckled anew as she negotiated the final turn up his long driveway, lit by an impressive array of muted lights on either side of the road leading to his residence.

Her grandfather’s home sat prominently on top of a hill on the very farthest reaches of Midwater valley. It was an unlikely blend of Montana ranch and European castle, with an enormous expanse of rambling, single-story pitched roof stacked on either side by tall, sturdy turret bookends. An astronomer’s telescope topped the right turret. The left turret housed the emergency generators that backed up the valley’s often fickle power supply.

Tonight, those turrets and every other inch of the large, impressive home were decked out in twinkling red and green lights to celebrate the season. A life-size Nativity scene took up the entire east lawn.

Behind the house, the top of a hill had been shaved off to form a helicopter pad. One edge sported a huge neon Santa Claus, with jolly glowing red cheeks, cracking his whip from the cockpit of a whirlybird with a flashing red nose.

Considering the modest, rural village of Midwater, her grandfather’s extravagant residence, with its ostentatious decorations, definitely stood out, yet strangely befitted the small community’s most famous, unconventional and exalted inhabitant.

William Winsome—former star of stage and screen, the man known for his clever manipulation of movie producers and directors, the man whose later rise to the governorship of the state of Montana was due more to his brilliant outmaneuvering of his political opponents than to his substantial personal charisma—this was the man who was about to find himself finally tripping over that long, interfering nose of his.

Noel was smiling.

She was still smiling as Jean Skogen, her grandfather’s part-time nurse, housekeeper and chauffeur for the past five years, opened the door to her doorbell summons.

Jean was a square five-five, with blunt-cut dark hair, a blunt-shaped face, a blunt-shaped body and a blunt look in her hazel eyes. She helped Noel to shed her coat with the economy of neat, purposeful movements that still remained despite the fact that she’d ceased being an army paramedic a decade before.

Wipe your feet, Jean ordered in her typical bossy blunt tone.

Noel smiled and did as she was told. Jean’s appearance and manner had finally ceased to fool her a couple of Christmases ago. It was a week after Noel’s devastating breakup with Cade that Jean appeared—quite unexpectedly—on her doorstep, holding a tiny white puppy.

My sister in Texas breeds West Highland white terriers. Champions. Except this runt. Throwback genes or something. She sent it to me rather than have it destroyed. Thought I might like a dog. I don’t like dogs. You don’t want it, Noel, no problem. I’ll have Doc give it a lethal injection.

Noel had snatched the adorable ball of white fur out of Jean’s hands, horrified that the woman could think, much less say, such a thing. Mistletoe quickly and thoroughly stole her heart. Somehow the pain surrounding Cade never seemed so bad after the little white terrier came into her life.

And when Noel got the papers on Mistletoe from Jean’s sister a month later and found that far from being the runt of the litter, her little terrier was its pick, she’d gotten a clear glimpse of the warm, squishy heart that hid behind the blunt manner of one Jean Skogen.

Now she leaned over to give the hard cheek a quick kiss. Jean’s hazel eyes softened. The ends of her lips raised briefly in the ghost of a smile. Her tone was hurried, confidential, a mere whisper.

They’ve been waiting for you.

"They? Who—"

Noel! William Winsome’s voice boomed across his enormous foyer, just as it had in many a theater, drowning out her question. Jean quickly turned away to hang up Noel’s coat in the hall closet.

Noel’s grandfather was still a strong-looking man at seventy-five—tall, straight, with a shock of thick white hair, a prominent nose and very blue eyes. He wore a typical outfit this evening—fine, dark gray wool slacks, a sports coat one shade lighter and an open-collared light