USA Today Bestselling Author of Medieval Romance

PROLOGUE

 

I never asked to be made over. In fact, I was perfectly content with Katherine Mae Meadows just the way she was—twenty-nine years young (and holding), five foot seven (on tiptoe), 110 pounds (wrung out), and completely “au naturel”  (in my line of work, who has time to fuss with hair and makeup?).

 

Yep, content. And the more I told myself that, the more I was convinced. Then one so-called friend commented on my shortcomings to one Dr. Clive Alexander. And the louse concurred! But I’ll explain about the good doctor later, as he definitely bears mention.

 

Okay, so I wasn’t content. But I’m not alone. After all, whose legs (other than those of digitally enhanced models) can’t stand to lose a tangled web of spider veins and a tub of cottage cheese? Then there are wrinkles—as in wrinkle here, wrinkle there, wrinkle, wrinkle everywhere. Oh! And not-so-strategically-placed moles.

 

The point is: there’s something somewhere on every someone’s body that could benefit from some type of beauty enhancement (e.g., sclerotherapy, dermabrasion, lift, tuck, implants, liposuction). At least, that’s the thinking I came around to.

 

So I guess I did want to be made over. Sort of. And it’s all Clive Alexander’s fault—

 

Oops. Like I said, I’ll explain about him later.

 

As for the beginning of the end of Kate as I knew her, it started when a makeup artist and his crew stopped me and my housemate on a San Francisco street and asked if we’d like to be made over for an upcoming issue of Changes magazine.

 

Tempting, especially as I’d recently cornered my reflection and decided that something had to be done to stop the downward slide of the woman in the mirror. Which brings me back to Clive Alexander.

 

Again!

 

Anyway, call it fate or just plain chance, standing before me was the fashionably bald Michael Palmier. And he wanted to transform me, among other things. Turns out he’s also a pretty good kisser, though not as good as Clive—

 

I digress. Or should I say obsess? Of course, I suppose that’s my cue to rewind and begin with the night Clive entered my relatively uncomplicated sphere of existence. The night those unblinking eyes swept through me as if I were invisible. The night I took up residence in front of my bathroom mirror instead of cracking open my Bible. The night I excused myself from Bible study by calling the exercise before the mirror “soul-searching.”

 

Soul-searching—ha! Couldn’t have been further from the truth.

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Oh, my. Is it my imagination, or did a tuxedoed Brad Pitt just walk through the doors of one of San Francisco’s most exclusive children’s clothing stores?

 

I blink behind my rectangular specs to bring his profile into sharper focus. But as it’s been ages since I’ve seen a pic of Brad sporting anything other than bed-tousled hair, I can’t be certain if this clean-cut male specimen is him. Definitely calls for a closer look.

 

As I step forward, a voice at my back murmurs, “GQ. Very GQ.”

 

I look around and up into the boyishly handsome face of Beau, co-owner of Belle and Beau’s Boutique. From his hiked eyebrow, the peak of which disappears into the dark brown hair playing across his brow, it’s obvious he’s also taking in the Brad-ish guy.

 

Giving my best don’t-even-think-about-it glower, I cuff his shoulder. “I’ll tell Belle.”

 

He grins. “You know I’m kidding.”

 

Of course I do, as he’s never given me cause to think he might revert to the days before he wandered into our church. However, just as he never misses an opportunity to rib me, I never miss the opportunity to return the favor—even though we sometimes push it too far.

 

He lifts the hand that bears a gold band and wiggles his fingers. “I’m a reformed man. Belle’s the only one for me.”

 

Ah… Momentarily forgetting my on-again, off-again “thou shalt embrace singledom and be unbelievably, inconceivably happy” creed, I wish someone felt about Katherine Mae Meadows the way Beau feels about Belle.

 

“I know,” I say on a breathy note, which snaps me out of “here comes the bride/happily ever after” mode. Thankfully. Despite marriage’s supporters, it’s not for everyone. Not that I rule it out completely. Rather, singledom is simply the conclusion I reach each time something promising dissolves into something…not so promising. As an added benefit, the dry spells inherent in selective dating are a little easier to bear.

 

Selective? As in must have credentials, and topping that list is that The One be a Christian. Not that I haven’t fudged a time or two…make that three (“I know I can change him”), but without fail I’ve regretted lifting the ban on what others call a discriminatory practice. Of course, some of my Christian dates haven’t gone much better, but at least those losses don’t seem to cut as deep.

 

“Earth to Kate.” Beau waves a hand inches from my nose. “Hellooo.”

 

I blink and push my specs farther up my nose. “Do you think that’s Brad—?”

 

“No, but he does bear a certain resemblance.” Beau smoothes his linen jacket, presses his shoulders back to attain his full five feet ten inches, and winks. “Meet and greet time.”

 

He walks toward Brad-ish, who’s standing with arms crossed over his chest and head back to scan the three-story three-dimensional wall that’s my crowning achievement—and for which many of the bay area’s mommies and daddies have turned out this evening.

 

As I sidle nearer, Beau halts to the left of his target and thrusts a hand forward. When Brad-ish turns to him, I’m treated to a head-on view.

 

“Shucks,” I mutter as he accepts Beau’s handshake with a stiff á la carte smile that bares no teeth, grooves no cheek, and lights no eyes. Definitely not Brad. Smile aside, his eyes are less-than-unearthly blue, jaw relatively narrow, and skin on the weathered side. As for his size, though his shoulders are broad, his height falls short. Not that ex-Brad-ish isn’t attractive. He’s simply not flawless. In his mid-forties perhaps?

 

“Kate Meadows?” A hand grips my arm. “Are you Kate Mae Meadows?”

 

I look beside me. “Uh, yes.”

 

The young woman, casually elegant in a soft black skirt and cream-colored blouse, sighs. “Love your work! How do you do it?”

 

My gaze follows hers as we look from Kapok tree to toucan to waterfall to jaguar, several of which project off the wall. Nice. Although I sometimes forget to step back and marvel at the talent God has given me, once a project comes together, I’m amazed—and humbled—as there’s no denying that it wasn’t a solo undertaking.

 

I sigh. “Just the right mix of imagination and inspiration, I guess.”

 

She presses something into my hand—my dozenth business card this evening. “The name’s Olivia. My little girl would love a Kate Mae Meadows room.”

 

Guessing her daughter to be quite young, as mommy appears to be all of twenty, I nod. “I’m booked for the next three months, but—”

 

“August then!”

 

I smile. “I’ll call you.”

 

With a wave, Olivia glides off among the racks of trendy children’s clothes. Shortly, she loops an arm through that of an older man, who regards her with an I-am-so-bored expression that brightens only when a server appears bearing a tray of desserts. He helps himself to one but shakes his head when Olivia reaches for the tray.

 

Mustn’t ruin that pretty figure, I surmise as I watch her sparkle sputter. Why, oh why, do so many sacrifice so much for the sake of outward appearances?

 

I yank my thoughts back. Who knows? Maybe Olivia is cavity prone…or diabetic…or allergic…

 

Belle, the first half of Belle and Beau’s Boutique, appears before me. “So?”

 

I meet her hazel gaze and smile. “Great turnout. I really appreciate your putting on this ‘do.’”

 

“Good for business, too.” She smoothes the golden wisps escaping her French roll and glances around.

 

“Who’s the overdressed guy with Beau?”

 

I look to Brad-ish, who, despite the upscale attire of the others in attendance, definitely stands out—and not just because of the tux. “I don’t know.”

 

“By himself?”

 

“So far, no S.O. in tow.”

 

Ugh. Did I really say that? I’ve heard S.O. so often that it has crept into my vocabulary. S.O., as in significant other, which is what the uncommitted committed are fashionably called. Why, even some husbands and wives refer to the other as an S.O. It’s so…impersonal. As if a loved one warrants little more than the status of something approaching a scouring pad.

 

Belle’s lids narrow. “From the interest he’s showing in your wall, might be another client.”

 

Focusing on Brad-ish, I sigh. “I certainly hope so.”

 

She chuckles. “Now that’s a rather enthusiastic response. Mind if I read something into it?”

 

“Oh, stop! You know I’ve given up on men.”

 

Her eyebrows rise. “Second time this year, right?”

 

Twice. So what’s the big deal? Makes it sound as if—

 

“And of course, it is only March. Who knows, but at this rate, you might just top last year’s New Year’s—er, New Month’s—resolutions.”

 

She has a point, but this time I mean it. In the unlikelihood that I finally meet The One, it will be because God dropped him in my lap. Hmm…

 

I glance at Brad-ish. Sure would be nice if he was searching for a soft landing. Maybe I am being a bit hasty with my “thou shalt embrace singledom and be unbelievably, inconceivably happy” creed.

 

“Could be the one,” Belle singsongs.

 

“Fat chance.”

 

“You never know.” She slides a hand across her waist, and as with each time I see her caress her unborn child, I pause. All thoughts of my moratorium on men take a giant step back. Please, God, let this baby make it. Belle’s strong, but another miscarriage—

 

“Past the halfway mark,” she says.

 

Peering into her angular face, the edges of which pregnancy has begun to soften, I pop a worry-free smile in place. “Four months to go.” Best-case scenario, but if she can just make it two more months…

I click my tongue. “Well, guess I’ll make the most of this last hour and schmooze up some more business.”

 

“You do that, and I’ll trawl around for a date for you.”

 

I give Belle the evil eye. “No more blind dates, literally or otherwise.”

 

She snickers at the reference to my most recent date—one of her suppliers who she’d only dealt with over the phone. And the reason I’ve given up on men. Again. No, Charles wasn’t ancient or enormously fat. In fact, he was something of a looker. Literally, though, think dark specs, white cane, and guide dog. Not that I have anything against the visually impaired, but when he used his disability as an excuse to grope me—

 

Honestly! Right there in the restaurant in front of everyone. I felt like an overripe melon. And I feel melon-y enough with a bosom that defies the most stalwart support bra, threatens to topple me when I lean forward, and makes my back ache to the point of tears. Speaking of which, I probably shouldn’t mess with what God gave me, but one of these days I’m going to do something about my chest. First I have to get up the nerve. And an excess amount of cash.

 

Belle sobers. “Sorry about Charles. I didn’t think he was your type, but I figured a night on the town would do you good.”

 

And I’m twinged at wringing yet another apology from her. “I appreciate your efforts, Belle.”

 

Her eyes flash—an indication that she has every intention of continuing those efforts to see me as happily married as she.

 

Oh, well. As it’s better to know up front who she’s throwing my way, I hold up a finger. “If you insist, but this time make sure he’s a Christian.”

 

Not that she doesn’t feel the same way I do about dating. She’s just become, for lack of a better word, desperate. After all, the bay area isn’t exactly teeming with single Christian men. And she has to be thinking that if Beau, with his seemingly insurmountable past, could be converted, I might also be blessed.

 

“Ch-ching,” Belle murmurs her rendition of a cash register as a woman floats past with an armful of hundred-dollar girlie-girl dresses. With a slight roll in her pregnant step, she hurries off in flat-soled shoes, the likes of which I’ll never get used to seeing her wear. A lover of heels that elevate her above her slender five and a half feet, Belle is rarely seen in anything under three inches. But now that her pregnancy is well under way—

 

Deep laughter sidetracks my musing.

 

Brad-ish? The air in my cheeks developing a leak, I blink him into focus and glimpse grooves on either side of his mouth.

 

Nice teeth, but it’s the laugh—the kind that turns heads without crossing the line to obnoxiousness—that’s responsible for the humming at my center. Manly. Very manly.

 

Though it’s unlikely that Brad-ish meets my selective dating criteria, is he even eligible for fantasizing—as in single? Of course, my housemate, Maia, would probably overlook a little thing like a wedding ring.

 

She’s already done it—or rather is doing it. For the past year, the five-foot-ten-inch, 120-pound stockbroker has been seeing a married man. Or, as she calls him, unhappily married. She really needs to find Jesus, and if I can just—

 

Brad-ish’s eyes land on me. It may be a second our gazes hold, it may be a dozen, but when he returns his attention to Beau, I nearly wilt.

 

With heightened curiosity over his marital status—not that I’ve abandoned my resolution—I lower my gaze to find his arms crossed over his chest again, left hand gripping right bicep, fingers curled out of sight. Of course, if I work my way around, I should have a clear view.

 

Smoothing the shirt that tops my jeans, I step past a rack of Easter outfits, weave a little left, then a little right, and station myself between a collection of little boy duds and little girl tutus. However, no sooner do I spy the elusive hand than Beau’s voice carries to me.

 

“Though Kate may not be much to look at, you have to admit her work is beautiful.”

 

I slam my gaze to Beau to determine if he is aware of my eavesdropping and is just making the most of it—in a rather cruel way—but he appears oblivious.

 

“I agree,” Brad-ish says.

 

The humming caused by his laughter seeps out of me. I attempt to shore up the leak by telling myself he’s concurring about my work and not my looks. And it helps for all of two seconds.

 

“Of course, it’s inner beauty that matters.” Brad-ish sounds oddly distant.

 

Beau shrugs. “You’re right. I’m just one of the lucky few whose wife possesses inner and outer beauty.”

 

Which you don’t deserve, Beau-zo! And which you wouldn’t have if I hadn’t put in a good word for you!

 

Not that it’s news to me that I’m less than model perfect, but when I put forth the effort, I clean up well. Unfortunately, with all the last minute touch-ups to the Amazon wall, I didn’t have time to give it my all. With forty-five minutes to spare, I hurtled home, dragged my curls into a ponytail, and pulled on the first clean top and jeans to come to hand. The only clean ones, owing to laundry put on hold to complete the wall. Fortunately, the event is just right of casual and left of elegant. Even more fortunate, allowances are made for artists, especially those of the San Francisco variety.

 

Brad-ish glances at his watch. “How about an introduction?”

 

Realizing I’m the introduction he seeks and I am about to be caught eavesdropping, I swing around and suppress a groan as discomfort strikes between my shoulder blades.

 

Oh, my aching back…

 

Still, I pick up the pace and am within feet of the restroom when Beau calls. 

 

“Kate, darling!”

 

Darling! Not his darling—ever again!

 

Knowing that Brad-ish is likely watching, I paste on a smile and turn. “Yes?”

 

Beau clasps my shoulder. “He’d like an introduction.”

 

“I need to freshen up.”

 

“Freshen up?” He frowns down me and up again. “You look…”

 

Go on, I silently dare. Tell me I look great…pretty…any old lie-through-your-teeth compliment so long as I can bite your head off!

 

He sighs. “You have looked better.”

 

Ah!

 

“Come on.” He tugs my arm. “Dr. Alexander only has a few minutes before he has to leave for some swanky fund-raiser.”

 

Which explains the tux.

 

I cross my arms over my chest. “And he wants to squander them on Kate Meadows, who according to the latest poll isn’t much to look at?”

 

Though the politically correct thing would be to show surprise, transition to horror, and end with an apology, Beau grins. “Thought I’d give you something worth eavesdropping on.”

 

Then he— “That’s low! Even for you.”

 

He shrugs. “I know, but extreme situations call for extreme measures.”

 

“Extreme? Then you meant it?”

 

He screws up his eyes. “I keep telling you, some rollers, a little makeup, fitted clothes, a few less doughnuts—”

 

“I don’t eat doughnuts!”

 

He gives me a “yeah, right” look.

 

Okay, so once in a while I treat myself to a doughnut, but I’m only supporting our church’s doughnut ministry. Yeah, doughnut ministry.

 

Beau sighs. “As I was saying, the right clothes and color go a long way. Now back to Dr. Alexander.”

 

I stare at him through narrowed lids.

 

“Think client, Kate.”

 

Client.

 

“Think BIG project.”

 

I grit my teeth.

 

“Good. Now get to it.”

 

I shift my gaze to Brad-ish, who is once more consulting his watch. “All right, but if you think you’re back in my good graces, Beau-zo, you’re mistaken.” I step away.

 

“Uh…Kate.”

 

I twist around.

 

“The glasses.” He taps the bridge of his nose. “Lose them.”

 

Had I thought of it myself, I would. “No.” I shove them up on my nose and, with Beau in tow, cross the store. As we near, the divinely tuxedoed Dr. Alexander looks around, and I’m jolted by the gray-blue eyes that capture my reflection.

 

Steady, girl.

 

I halt before him and, for a moment, can’t remember what comes next.

 

“You’re Kate Meadows, I presume.” The frown on his brow contradicts the á la carte smile on his lips.

 

“Uh…yes.”

 

Beau steps into my peripheral vision. “Kate, this is Dr. Alexander.”

 

Now I remember. And become aware of the hand the doctor has extended—I have no idea for how long.

 

I thrust my hand into his and wince at the feel-good attraction that zips from fingertips to palm. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Alexander.”

 

When he eases his grip, I almost gasp as his fingers brush my palm in reverse. He lowers his arm.

 

Rats! I still haven’t checked out his hand. Would it be too obvious—?

 

Stop it! This is the man who concurred that you’re not much to look at. And who, at this moment, is looking through you.

 

“I’ve been admiring your work, Ms. Meadows. You’re very talented.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a business card with his left hand, the ring finger of which bears a gold band. Married then.

 

Not that there was much chance of us hitting it off, especially considering my disregard for appearance and manners, but it was a nice thought.

 

“Ms. Meadows?” He extends the card nearer.

 

Not again! Accepting the card, I drop my chin to hide my toasted cheeks. Printed at the top is a hospital’s name, center is Clive Alexander, MD, followed by an array of letters that surely denote his specialty, and at the bottom are his work and cell numbers.

 

“An acquaintance recommended you.”

 

“Oh?” I look up and, more out of habit than a need to see more clearly, push my specs up. Not a bad move, as it brings his features into sharp focus. Definitely attractive. Of course, what man garbed in a tuxedo doesn’t exude some level of yum?

 

In the next instant, his lips form words, and like a movie where a voice is out of sync, I hear him say,

 

“He passed on an article that featured your work.”

 

I start to ask the identity of the one to whom I should be grateful, but he says, “I believe the publication was Upscale.”

 

As in The Bay Area’s Finest Homes—my first appearance in a magazine. “Oh, yes.”

 

“I was particularly impressed with the playroom and the children’s library.”

 

“Thank you. Child-friendly environments are my specialty.” Not that I planned it that way.

 

He inclines his head. “Your work is incredible.”

 

“Really?” Yes, I’m fishing. And smiling straight up to my cheekbones. But as I struggle to subdue my mutinous mouth, Dr. Alexander smiles back, and this time his eyes crinkle at the corners.

 

“You have a unique style.”

 

I moisten my lips. “So, uh, what are you interested in? Revamping your child’s room?”

 

As if my question committed some heinous act, his smile slips. “I’m overseeing the expansion of our children’s burn unit and need to secure an artist to create something that appeals to children.” He nods at the wall. “Like this.”

 

Wishing his smile back, I reach into my shirt pocket and remove a brightly colored business card. Though mine isn’t as impressive as his, it is kind of cute. I hand it to him. “I’d love the opportunity to work up a proposal.”

 

“How far out are you booked?”

 

“Right now—”

 

“Clive!”

 

As he turns toward the flutey, singsongy voice, I peer past him. The woman, wearing an elegant sheath and with fashionably cropped hair accenting her cheekbones, crosses the boutique on stilettos.

 

So this is the Mrs.

 

“We’re late, Clive.” She lays a hand on his arm—her left hand, which is accessorized by a single diamond ring. And a pinkie ring at that.

 

Oh. Not the Mrs.…

 

She leans in and kisses his jaw, and I imagine Dr. Alexander’s wife and children sitting at home oblivious to his extracurricular activities. How sad.

 

“Adelphia, this is Ms. Meadows, the artist who created the Amazon wall.” He nods at my creation.

 

She doesn’t even feign interest but scans me up and down. Then, as if assured I present no threat, she gives a smile that is all the brighter for her findings.

 

“Ms. Meadows, this is Adelphia Jamison, a colleague of mine.”

 

Colleague. Right. Feeling like a sack of cocoa beans alongside a box of gourmet chocolates, I reach forward. “Nice to meet you.”

 

She clasps and unclasps my hand. “Mmm. Same. We really must go, Clive.”

 

He meets my gaze. “If I don’t phone within the next week, give me a call and we’ll discuss the project.”

 

“I’ll do that.”

 

Adelphia something-or-other loops her arm through his.

 

“Great-looking couple,” Beau murmurs as the two walk away.

 

“Hmm…wonder what his wife would say about that.”

 

“It’s probably something she accepted long ago.”

 

“I’d never accept it.”

 

He puts an arm around my shoulders. “Considering your keen fashion sense, there doesn’t seem much likelihood you’ll be asked to do so.”

 

I duck from beneath his arm. “You’re definitely in the doghouse, Beau-zo.”