Big-city Bachelor

It was nothing but chemistry

It was bound to happen to Alex eventually, considering the monklike existence he’d been living. But of all people, why did the chemistry have to happen with Lizzie Hamill?

He couldn’t explain it. She wasn’t his type. He’d never been attracted to unsophisticated women, or innocent smiles or uncontrollable red hair. Yet, the more he was around Lizzie, the stronger the attraction became. It had only been twelve hours since she’d burst into his life—how powerful would the attraction get if she stayed around longer?

Good God, he didn’t want to risk finding out.

Dear Reader,

May is the perfect month to stop and smell the roses, and while you’re at it, take some time for yourself and indulge your romantic fantasies! Here at Harlequin American Romance, we’ve got four brand-new stories, picked specially for your reading pleasure.

Sparks fly once more as Charlotte Maclay continues her wild and wonderful CAUGHT WITH A COWBOY! duo this month with In a Cowboy’s Embrace. Join the fun as Tasha Reynolds falls asleep in the wrong bed and wakes with Cliff Swain, the very right cowboy!

This May, flowers aren’t the only things blossoming—we’ve got two very special mothers-to-be! When estranged lovers share one last night of passion, they soon learn they’ll never forget That Night We Made Baby, Mary Anne Wilson’s heartwarming addition to our WITH CHILD…promotion. And as Emily Kingston discovers in Elizabeth Sinclair’s charming tale, The Pregnancy Clause, where there’s a will, there’s a baby on the way!

There’s something fascinating about a sexy, charismatic man who seems to have it all, and Ingrid Weaver’s hero in Big-City Bachelor is no exception. Alexander Whitmore has two wonderful children, money, a successful company….What could he possibly be missing…?

With Harlequin American Romance, you’ll always know the exhilarating feeling of falling in love.

Happy reading!

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Big-City Bachelor

Ingrid Weaver

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ingrid Weaver admits to being a compulsive reader who loves a book that can make her cry. A former teacher, now a homemaker and mother, she delights in creating stories that reflect the wonder and adventure of falling in love. When she isn’t writing or reading, she enjoys old Star Trek reruns, going on sweater-knitting binges, taking long walks with her husband and waking up early to canoe after camera-shy loons.

Ingrid recently received the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award for Best Romantic Suspense Novel.

Books by Ingrid Weaver

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

828—BIG-CITY BACHELOR

WHITMORE AND HAMMIL

Alex’s cooking tips—

1. Put spaghetti in pot and bring to boil. (Don't forget the water!)

2. When smoke alarm sounds, dinner is ready.

WHITMORE AND HAMMIL

Lizzie’s management tips—

1. Give bonus to staff members who share and play nicely together.

2. Ignore client tantrums, but offer oxygen if client turns blue.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

“We may have a slight problem, Alex.”

Leather groaned as Alexander Whitmore pushed away from his desk and leaned back in his swivel chair. The day couldn’t get any worse, could it? The presentation for the Starcourt account had bombed this morning. By noon the housekeeper had called with yet another threat to quit—this time the twins had painted her cat purple. Blood was throbbing at his temples in a prelude to one of his little-men-with-big-sledgehammers headaches, but somehow he forced himself to remain calm. Taking a deep breath, he regarded his lawyer warily. “How slight a problem?” he asked.

Jeremy Ebbet touched a hand to the knot of his tie and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that Roland didn’t sign the papers before he…departed. It was so sudden, you see. No one could have foreseen this…occurrence.”

Roland. No. It wasn’t possible. The man was haunting him. “We had reached an agreement more than a week before the accident,” Alex said. “That was over a month ago.”

“Well, there was a letter of intent.” Jeremy repositioned his briefcase across his bony knees, pressing his feet together tightly at the ankles. His steel-rimmed glasses flashed opaque in the light from the window, giving the gaunt lawyer a distinctly insectoid appearance. “Unfortunately, when I met with Roland’s attorneys this morning I discovered that Roland didn’t sign the letter, either. He did initial the changes, so I’m sure he wanted to go through with the sale. The terms we had worked out were exceedingly generous.”

Generous? Alex ground his teeth. He would have been forced to liquidate more than forty percent of his assets in order to meet Roland’s exorbitant demands. But it would have been worth it to finally have complete control of Whitmore and Hamill, the company they had founded thirteen years ago.

Alex Whitmore and Roland Hamill. They were as different as two men could be. At first, the tension their conflicting management styles had created had been good, providing a stimulating, electric environment that contributed to their rapid success. With Roland’s flamboyance and Alex’s solid dependability, Whitmore and Hamill had become one of the busiest advertising agencies in Manhattan.

Yet as their success had grown, so had Roland’s restlessness. He’d gradually withdrawn from the day-to-day running of the business, leaving the tedious responsibility of making money to Alex. Aside from swooping in every now and then to pick up his half of the profits and exercising his fifty percent control by hiring an assortment of loose cannons and prima donnas, Roland hadn’t been part of Whitmore and Hamill for more than two years. The buyout had been inevitable.

But then Roland Hamill had tried to race a freight train to a crossing and had lost.

Alex raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the confused emotions that arose whenever he thought of Roland. Analyzing his feelings was something Alex had never had the time nor the inclination to do, yet he knew that he felt the loss of his partner on more than a business level. Sure, he’d wanted to be rid of him, but not like this.

It was a senseless death. Reckless, irresponsible and completely avoidable. And spectacular. Like most things about Roland.

“That fifty percent is mine,” Alex said, clenching his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy said, holding up a copy of the agreement. “Without a signature on this paper, we would have a difficult time proving our case in court.”

“In court? It won’t come to that, will it?”

“For the sake of the business, we should try to avoid a legal challenge at all costs.”

Alex stretched forward and picked up the paper by one corner. If only he’d insisted that Roland sign the paper before he’d left that day. If only it hadn’t been foggy and the road hadn’t been slick. If only the freight train had reached that crossing ten seconds later.

If only Alex had followed his instincts and had said no to Roland Hamill thirteen years ago.

But Alex rarely allowed himself to follow his instincts. He didn’t act impulsively or let spontaneity interfere with logic. All that was better left to the Rolands of the world.

So even though he wanted to crush the useless paper in his fist and pitch it across the room, even though he wanted to kick something, hard, instead he controlled his frustration and scanned the printed lines once more, hoping he would find some way to salvage this mess. “What about our original partnership agreement?” Alex asked. “Can’t I get control through that?”

“I checked the contract very carefully before I came here today.”

“And?”

“Since all the original loans have been paid off, Roland owned his shares outright. They are considered part of his estate.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What happened to his estate?”

“He bequeathed the entire thing to his last surviving blood relative.”

“I thought he didn’t have any family. No one came to the funeral.”

“Evidently there had been a falling out three decades ago.”

“Knowing Roland, that doesn’t really surprise me,” Alex muttered.

“It took the entire three weeks since his accident to track down and verify his beneficiary. Clarke, Parker and Stein, who are acting as Roland’s executors, notified her only yesterday.”

“Her?”

“A niece.” Jeremy shuffled his papers again and traced the name that was printed on the top one. “A Miss Elizabeth Hamill of Packenham Junction, Wisconsin. As I understand it, she is the only child of his deceased older brother.”

The hammering in Alex’s temples spread to the back of his head. Had he really thought the day couldn’t get any worse? “Do you mean to tell me that half my company, fifty percent of this business, is now owned by some stranger in Hicksville?”

“Uh, Packenham Junction. It’s a dairy farming area. Evidently they’re famous for their cheese.”

“Cheese. Cheese?”

“And dairy products.”

“If he wasn’t already dead, I might kill him myself,” Alex muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Roland. I think he did this deliberately.”

“As a matter of fact, he did. There was no question of his competence at the time he made his will. Once it is out of probate and all the appropriate papers are signed, Miss Hamill will be…uh…”

“My new partner.”

“Correct.”

Alex tossed the useless agreement onto his desk and tightened his hand into a fist. “I don’t suppose she knows the advertising industry? Has a degree in business? Experience in marketing?”

“I’m sorry, Alex. I haven’t had the opportunity to investigate her background. We only became aware of her existence this morning.”

Alex rose slowly, moving with the unnerving grace and the deceptive patience of a big cat. With a sound disconcertingly close to a growl, he paced across the room. He looked at the framed awards that decorated the wall, testimony to the life he’d built. He’d come a long way since he’d scrawled his plans on a grimy basement windowpane.

Success bought wealth, and wealth bought security. Not just for him, but for his sons. The twins would never have to go through what he did. They’d never have a moment’s worry about the food they ate or the clothes they wore. Their playroom alone was larger than the place he’d lived in as a child. There was nothing they didn’t have. And once complete control of Whitmore and Hamill was in his grasp, their future would be assured.

“I don’t care if she’s a Nobel laureate in economics,” he said finally. “I won’t share my company with another Hamill.”

Jeremy cleared his throat. “But according to the law—”

“We’ll make her an offer.”

“Excuse me?”

“For Roland’s shares. Make her an offer as soon as possible.”

“And if she won’t sell?”

“We’ll soften her up first. Woo her. Dazzle her. Do whatever it takes. But we need to move quickly before she has a chance to consider alternatives.” He strode to the window and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ll approach this like one of our campaigns.”

“That would solve our problem, wouldn’t it?”

“And it would also make Miss Elizabeth Hamill a very wealthy woman.”

Jeremy snapped his briefcase shut. “I’ll get started on this right away.”

“Fine. Keep me informed.”

“I certainly shall. But in the event that we aren’t successful…”

Alex twisted around, fixing the lawyer with a steady glare. “She’ll sell.”

“Well, if she’s anything like her uncle…”

Alex pressed his fingertips against his temples. “God, let’s hope not. There couldn’t be two of them in the world, could there?”

Chapter One

Curling her fingers around the ends of the armrests, Lizzie Hamill counted backward from ten, willing herself to turn her head when she reached zero. Statistics showed that this was the safest form of travel possible. People did it all the time. The laws of aerodynamics weren’t about to be repealed. It was downright cowardly not to look out the window at least once.

“Two,” she whispered. “One.” She took a deep breath. “Zero.” Nothing happened. “Zero,” she repeated, lifting her hands to her cheeks and forcing her head to move.

Air rushed from her lungs in a high-pitched squeak. There was so much sky. Bluer than a morning in January, wider than the horizon from Hanson’s Bluff, brighter than a sunrise on the ripples at the bend of the creek. It was so vast, so…awesome. How could anything be so beautiful and so terrifying at the same time?

Heart beating in a hard lump in her throat, Lizzie stared, fascinated despite herself. She was thirty years old and this was her first time in an airplane. She had expected to be nervous, had every right to be nervous, and yet…

And yet, it was the same sky she had seen every day of her life, the same one that arched over the house on Myrtle Street. Why should she be afraid of it just because she was seeing it from a different viewpoint?

Gradually, her pulse began to steady. There was a confusing mix of emotions churning inside her. Along with the fear was something else, something unfamiliar. It was a stretching, restless kind of itch that she couldn’t identify, as if she were responding to…what? Challenge? Adventure?

Hardly. She was the least adventurous person she knew. She was Auntie Liz, good old Lizzie, always available to baby-sit the kids or whip up ten pies for the church bake sale. Until now, the most adventuresome thing she’d done had been to sneak nine items through the eight-items-or-less line.

Yet here she was on a plane. Not just any plane, but one that was taking her to New York City. Could this really be happening?

She dropped her hands, slowly leaning forward until the tip of her nose touched the glass. The land spread out beneath her like a quilt that had been washed too many times, its colors mellowed, its stitching puckered into hills and valleys. In stately slow motion, it rolled past, indifferent and unaware.

And so very, very far away.

Lizzie felt her stomach roll. She hadn’t been able to eat breakfast this morning. Bad move. Considering what she was going to be facing when the plane finally landed, she should have girded herself with a five-course meal. Lord knew she could have afforded it.

She was an honest-to-goodness heiress.

Well, as much of an heiress as Packenham Junction had ever produced. It was still difficult to believe, but the lawyers assured her there’d been no mistake. Her Uncle Roland Hamill, the black sheep of the family, the man whose name hadn’t been spoken above a whisper in all her growing years, had left his entire estate to the niece he had never met.

Poor Uncle Roland. She’d been saddened to learn of his death, but it was a distant sadness, not the heart-wrenching grief she’d felt when her parents had died. She knew almost nothing about him. There hadn’t been any photographs of him in the family album, although there had been some boyhood pictures of her father that had obviously had sections torn off. What had driven him away from his home? Why had her father hated him so much?

And what on earth was she going to do with all the money?

Well, not all that much money. His lawyers had already handled the sale of Uncle Roland’s condominium and his furniture, but most of the proceeds had gone toward paying his debts.

And that was a shame. Lizzie’s stepsister, Jolene, was pregnant again, and with the sporadic nature of Tim’s work, they could use some money. Zack, her youngest stepbrother, was due to start college next fall and Benjamin, the oldest, had confessed that business at the cheese factory had been steadily declining. Despite their circumstances, though, her adoptive siblings, true to the stubborn nature of the entire Pedley clan, had been adamant about not taking any of her inheritance.

“It’s yours, Lizzie,” Jolene had said on the drive to the airport this morning. As usual, the task of family spokesperson had fallen to her. “For once in your life, you have something that’s just for you.”

“But I couldn’t possibly—”

“Yes, you can. Your uncle wanted you to have it.”

“I feel weird about it, though. I mean, why should he pass everything on to me when we didn’t even know each other?”

“Well, who else was there? He never married, never had children of his own, right?”

“Right.”

“So why are you still so hesitant? It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

“I know, but it’s all been so sudden.”

“It’s just like a fairy tale, Auntie Liz,” Marylou said breathlessly, leaning forward to grasp the top of Lizzie’s seat. She blew a pink bubble and popped it noisily against the roof of her mouth. “The good princess, struggling to make ends meet, is suddenly transformed by the wave of a magic wand and is whisked away to an enchanted kingdom.”

“I’m going to New York, not Never-Never-Land,” Lizzie said, shaking her head at the irrepressibly whimsical seven-year-old. “And working at the day care center isn’t exactly sweeping up cinders.”

“But Mom’s your stepsister,” Marylou continued, her eyes sparkling as she expanded the fantasy.

“Mmm. That’s true. Do you think we could call her evil, though?”

“She makes everyone eat broccoli.”

“That’s true, too.” She glanced at Jolene. “You evil thing, you.”

“I knew all those bedtime stories you read my kids would warp their minds,” Jolene muttered under her breath as she fought to steer the old station wagon around a bend in the road. “But getting back to our topic, we were talking about your inheritance.”

Lizzie sighed. “I still don’t know what I’ll do with it if I don’t share it with the rest of you.”

“We’ll survive just fine. It’s you we’re concerned about,” Jolene said. “After all the years you’ve devoted to taking care of other people, it’s about time you had a chance to focus on yourself.”

“Maybe you could go shopping,” Marylou said helpfully. “There’s this really cool green dress with sparkles on it that’s in the window of McBride’s.”

Lizzie smiled wryly. “I know the one. Thanks for the suggestion, but I’m not sure how well sequins would stand up to a roomful of three-year-olds with finger paints.”

“There won’t be any three-year-olds or finger paints where you’re going,” Jolene said. “And I think it would be a great idea to do some shopping while you’re away.”

“This is a business trip, remember?”

“Sure, but it’s your business you’re going to visit.”

“I don’t think that part has quite sunk in yet, either. What on earth am I going to do with fifty percent of Whitmore and Hamill?”

“Run the company, of course.”

At Jolene’s deadpan comment, Lizzie burst into laughter. “Oh, now that’s almost as good as working at the day care in sequins,” she said when she caught her breath. “Me? A business tycoon?”

Jolene didn’t join in her laughter. “Why not? You’re smart enough to do whatever you put your mind to.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but—”

“You know it’s true. You started up your own business already, didn’t you?”

“That’s different. The day care is just organized babysitting.”

“It’s a business,” Jolene insisted. “And who has been helping Ben with his books for the past six years?”

“I always helped him with his math homework. It’s just a hobby.”

“Hah. You managed to run Dad’s farm when you were only nineteen. Why, if you hadn’t turned down that scholarship so you could stay and take care of us—”

“That’s ancient history, Jolene. The family needed me, and I don’t have any regrets. I’m perfectly happy just as I am.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Are you?”

“Of course,” she said quickly. Automatically. Because she already knew from experience how useless regrets could be. One of the most painful phrases ever spoken was if only. So she didn’t speak it.

“Do you really own a company, Auntie Liz?”

“Well, part of it.”

“Hey, cool.”

“I’ll bring you some of their stationery for a souvenir, okay?”

As the engines droned on and the miles slipped past beneath her, Lizzie thought about her promise to her niece. She didn’t know much about the advertising business, but she was pretty sure that owning half the company involved more than lending her name to the letterhead. If all that was expected of her was her name, Mr. Whitmore wouldn’t have arranged this trip in the first place, would he?

That lawyer, Jeremy Ebbet, had been so kind over the phone, expressing his sympathy over the loss of her uncle and offering to help her sort out all those bothersome legal technicalities of inheriting the partnership, as he’d put it. He’d said that Mr. Whitmore had personally asked him to invite her to visit their office, insisting the entire staff was eager to meet Roland’s niece. It must be true, since Mr. Whitmore was paying for her plane ticket and even her hotel room.

And as if that weren’t enough, yesterday an extravagant bouquet of flowers had been delivered to the house on Myrtle Street, compliments of that nice Mr. Whitmore.

Relaxing back into her seat, Lizzie speculated about the owner of the other name on the Whitmore and Hamill letterhead. Uncle Roland would have turned fifty this fall, so his partner was probably around the same age. Not for the first time, she tried to imagine a face to go with the name, but the image that popped into her head was a cross between a white-bearded fairy godmother and Santa Claus in a three-piece suit.

He’d sent her flowers. Flowers. That was another first. She wasn’t the kind of woman to whom men sent flowers. A flower pot, maybe. Once while she’d still been seeing Bobby, he’d shown up at her doorstep with a foot-high cedar tree, its roots dripping clods of fresh earth on her welcome mat. She’d smiled and thanked him, of course. It had been a sensible gift, since she’d been looking for something to plant beside the fence in the side yard. But still, there was something so wonderfully impractical about flowers. And sequins.

She shifted, tugging down the hem of her short navy-blue skirt. What did she need with sequins? This suit was her best outfit, one she’d managed to keep in good condition for several years by saving it for special occasions. Like the weddings of her friends, and the christenings of her friends’ children, and all the other events that marked the milestones of life. Of other people’s lives.

Not that she minded, she thought hurriedly. She loved her job, her friends and her family. She loved seeing them happy, and hearing their children call her “Auntie Liz.” She had finally come to terms with the fact that no one was going to call her “Mom.”

She really was perfectly happy, no matter what Jolene said, right?

But if that was the case, why had she jumped at the chance to make this trip? Why had she spent the past week training not one but two women to take her place at the day care? Why did she get this heart-pounding, palm-sweating feeling each time she thought about her uncle’s…no, her company?

The plane banked in a wide, slow turn and the window tipped toward the ground. Lizzie braced her hand against the side of the fuselage and craned her neck to see the new view that unfolded. Her stomach didn’t roll quite as badly this time.

Just like any new experience, once you got the hang of it, flying wasn’t so bad after all.

The flight was forty minutes late by the time it landed at La Guardia. Tinged with gray, bleak as a closed barn door, the airport spread in drab determination across the patched asphalt. Inside the terminal, the air was thick with humidity and laced with the babble of strangers. Everyone appeared to know exactly where they were going and were in a heck of a hurry to get there, so Lizzie hitched the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder and let the stream carry her along to the baggage claim.

“Oh, Lord love a duck,” she whispered when she caught sight of the uniformed man standing beside the glass doors. Even though they didn’t have anything like this in Packenham Junction, she’d watched enough TV to recognize an honest-to-goodness limousine chauffeur when she saw one. And he was holding up a neatly lettered sign with her name on it.

That nice Mr. Whitmore had said that he’d arrange to have someone meet her flight, but she hadn’t expected anything quite so fancy. Dragging her suitcase behind her, she hurried to claim her ride before the limousine turned into a pumpkin.

The hotel room that had been reserved for her turned out to be a suite with a carpet that was thick enough to swallow small animals. There was a dazzling bouquet of flowers on the desk in the sitting room and another on the long, low dresser in the bedroom. And as if that weren’t enough to make her head spin, on the round coffee table in front of the couch there was a huge basket loaded with fresh fruit and a bottle of wine with a glittering gold bow, all compliments of Alexander Whitmore.

What an exceptionally generous man that Mr. Whitmore must be. He was being so kind to the partner he didn’t even know, what a wonderful relationship he must have had with her uncle.

One hour later, after a hair-raising trip in a taxi and an elevator ride that made her ears pop, Lizzie finally arrived at the thirty-sixth floor of the glass-and-steel tower that housed the offices of Whitmore and Hamill. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, pleased that she didn’t have to resort to counting backward this time, she moved across the reception area and stopped in front of a semicircular desk.

A slim, ruthlessly blond woman who looked as if she could have just stepped from the pages of Cosmopolitan smiled politely. “Good afternoon.”

Lizzie clasped the worn handle of her best purse and smiled back. “Hi.”

“May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Whitmore.”

The woman traced a lethal-looking red fingernail down the list in front of her. “And your name?”

How long had it been since she’d been someplace where people didn’t know her? She wouldn’t have needed to identify herself to Mabel at the Packenham Clinic, and her dentist’s wife always greeted her by name on the rare occasions she nerved herself up to go for a checkup. But this was a different place. A different world, according to Marylou.

“Miss?”

“I’m Lizzie Hamill.”

There was a strangled gasp. “Miss Elizabeth Hamill?”

She nodded.

The woman pressed a button on the blinking array in front of her, lifted a telephone receiver to her ear and spoke quickly before hurrying around the desk to Lizzie’s side. “Please, come with me. I’ll show you directly to the conference room. Mr. Whitmore’s been expecting you.”

Treating her with all the deference due visiting royalty, the receptionist, who said her name was Pamela, ushered Lizzie toward a pair of doors at the other end of a wide hall. Assuring her that Mr. Whitmore was on his way, Pamela waited until Lizzie stepped inside, then closed the doors discreetly, leaving her alone.

Lizzie glanced around. Conference room? The place was long enough to double as a bowling alley if they got rid of the table. There were enough chairs here to accommodate a Pedley family reunion, although she doubted whether the place would look quite as pristine once they were through with it. She leaned over the table, checking her reflection in the mirror-polished surface, then gave one of the swivel chairs a spin.

Framed posters decorated the walls, many of them scenes from familiar commercials. She recognized the neon colors of a soft-drink ad and the desert landscape that provided the background for a line of luxury cars. Dominating it all, though, was the elegant sign at the other end of the room. There, on the wall, engraved on a huge brass plaque in letters as long as her forearm, was…

“My name,” she breathed.

Well, her uncle’s name.

Pursing her lips into a soundless whistle, she walked the length of the gleaming table and touched her fingertips to the scrolling letters. Even though she wasn’t the Hamill the sign had been made for, seeing it still gave her a thrill. No, it was more complicated than a thrill. It was a restless, stretching kind of tickle, like the one she’d felt on the plane. It was as if that unacknowledged part of her was still responding to challenge and adventure.

Run the company.

Her mouth quirked as Jolene’s outrageous comment came back to her. Ridiculous. Tracing the outline of her name was as close as she was going to come to the kind of person her Uncle Roland must have been.

The doors at the other end of the room clicked open. Lizzie used her sleeve to rub her fingerprints off the sign and turned around. At her first sight of the man whose tall frame filled the doorway, she splayed her hand over the letters once more, only this time it was for balance.

With the purposeful, controlled tread of a prowling animal, he moved closer. No, he was too civilized to be compared to an animal, wasn’t he? His shoes gleamed with a polish as glossy as the table, and his charcoal suit and snow-white shirt were as crisp as a new dollar bill.

Lord, he was too good to be true, she thought, trying not to stare. No man really could have hair that thick and black, or eyes that seductively brown, or cheekbones that strong or a jaw that square. His nose was perfect, straight, strong and regal. He smiled, and masculine lines in the shape of twin brackets framed his perfect mouth. His teeth were perfect, too. And as if to ensure that all that perfection wouldn’t get monotonous, there was a dimple in his chin.