Husband Potential Read online

  “Spend the rest of the evening with me.”

  Fran stared straight ahead. “I don’t accept invitations from virtual strangers.”

  “We’re hardly strangers.”

  Her head swung around in reaction. The banked fire in Andre’s eyes excited and frightened her at the same time. “You are to me.” Her voice trembled.

  “Surely the news that I’m a mere man who finds himself attracted to you should come as a relief. Now you don’t have to feel guilty that you’ve been tempting me beyond my endurance.”

  “You’re wrong, Mr. Benet! If anything, your confession makes you more suspect than ever!”

  “I didn’t start out with the intention of lying to you. I didn’t want to feel an attachment to you so I perpetuated this myth, and then tried to forget you. But that immediate attraction has never gone away. Now I want to explore what there could be between us—because I know you feel that attraction, too.”

  Rebecca Winters, a mother of four, is a graduate of the University of Utah. She has won the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award and been named Utah Writer of the Year.

  Books by Rebecca Winters

  HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

  3519—BRIDE BY DAY

  3545—UNDERCOVER FIANCÉE*

  3549—UNDERCOVER BACHELOR*

  3553—UNDERCOVER BABY*

  What others have said about Rebecca Winters:

  OF UNDERCOVER HUSBAND:*

  “Once again Rebecca Winters delivers a topnotch reading experience as she expertly adds a little suspense to a wonderful romance…”

  —Romantic Times

  OF SECOND-BEST WIFE

  “A rare gem with a stand-out premise, memorable characters, and an emotionally gripping story of forbidden love.”

  —Romantic Times

  OF THREE LITTLE MIRACLES:

  “Featuring splendid characters and heart-tugging scenes, Ms. Winters spins a delightful tale in which love conquers all.”

  —Romantic Times

  Husband Potential

  Rebecca Winters

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  FROM THE STEPS of the Trappist monastery on the hillside, Fran Mallory could see out over the entire Salt Lake Valley. At seven in the morning, the sun had barely come up over the mountains behind the sandy rock-faced edifice.

  Dew still bathed the freshly mown grass on this glorious late April morning. A feeling of peace pervaded the grounds covered in acres of clover and flowering trees.

  All this and more she’d been cataloguing with her camera as the delicious perfume of fruit blossoms acted like an aphrodisiac on her senses. She stood gazing at the clouds which moved across a brilliant blue sky like huge, fat white pillows piled as high as the eye could see.

  Living by the dictates of a hectic agenda, she wished there were some way to store this moment as she would a piece of information on her computer, then come back to this exact spot with a click of the mouse whenever she needed to regroup and get in touch with her real self, whatever that was….

  So far, she had no idea. Fran only knew that at rare times like this, her soul yearned inexplicably for something she couldn’t put a name to.

  As she stood there musing, the haunting sound of the monks singing Gregorian chant permeated the outside walls of the chapel. The beautiful male voices came from those celibate men who were dedicated to a higher cause in the service of God.

  She couldn’t fathom men who denied themselves their earthly passions in order to show their devotion.

  On the other hand, her own selfish father hadn’t been able to control his passions. After being unfaithful to her mother with more than one woman, he’d left the state never to be seen or heard from again.

  Fran wasn’t the only girl among her group of friends whose family had known tragedy. Marsha Hume’s father was serving time in prison because it was discovered he’d been married to two women at the same time living in separate towns.

  Fran hadn’t been able to fathom that either. Nor could she countenance that several male students in her classes at the university turned out to be married men who’d come on to her while they’d been studying, actually believing she might be interested. Revolted and disillusioned, Fran found her distrust of men in general was growing.

  If God had wanted man and woman to be married and cling happily together as one flesh forever, she didn’t see it happening in the world she inhabited. Grudgingly she admitted there were a few exceptions. Her uncle and her pastor—and a couple of men at her work.

  The monks she could hear singing could be added to the list. She supposed they were honorable men, although she put them in another classification of human being altogether.

  She would sell her soul for one good man, but after twenty-eight years, she despaired of ever finding him. Tossing her head with its silvery-gold mane, she opened the heavy door, anxious to put aside any irritating thoughts on such a lovely day.

  The chapel foyer appeared to be deserted. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was far too early in the day for visitors or tourists.

  A sign indicated that guests should go upstairs to observe the mass. Another sign pointed to the gift shop on her right. Paul had said the Abbot would meet her in there for the initial interview. Depending on the outcome and his willingness, she might get some inside shots as well.

  As Fran opened the gift shop door, her breath caught in her throat. After everything Paul had told her, she had been prepared to greet a man in his seventies.

  The tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven monk behind the counter had to be in his midthirties. He was dressed in the same kind of brown work shirt and trousers she’d seen the monks wearing out in the orchards. Despite his attire, he had a princely bearing.

  At her entry, he stopped stacking jars and flicked his dark, piercing gaze to hers. His intelligent eyes looked black but were probably brown. The dim light in the shop obscured details. After an unnerving silence she heard him murmur, “May I help you?”

  This monk spoke in a deep, rich masculine tone, unaccountably stirring her senses.

  “I’m Ms. Mallory from Beehive Magazine. The Abbot made arrangements to let someone from our magazine interview him for an article we want to run in the July issue. I was told to meet him here at seven.”

  “I’m afraid Father Ambrose is unwell this morning. He hopes you will forgive him for the inconvenience and make another appointment.”

  He went on filling the rest of the shelves with the kinds of jars of honey and jams she’d occasionally purchased here in past years.

  “Of course.”

  Fran had never been this totally ignored before, but then again, she’d never come face-to-face with a Trappist monk either.

  “Do I make it through you?”

  He lifted his well-shaped head and stared at her, his eyes narrowing as if he were not pleased with the question.

  “No. Phone him in a week. He should be better by then.”

  “I hope it’s not serious.”

  “I shouldn’t think so.” He turned his back on her, no doubt signaling that this meeting had come to an end. Oddly enough she didn’t want to go. The monks fascinated her, especially this one. His short-cropped hair looked boyish from the back. She tried to imagine him in jeans and T-shirt, his hair a normal length.

  “I thought Trappist monks took vows of silence, the Abbot being the exception to handle the public, of course. Why i
s it that you can talk to me?”

  “Though the brothers find excessive conversation unnecessary, the vow of total silence is a myth,” came the even reply over his broad shoulder.

  Fran didn’t know that.

  “If it’s true, could I interview you while you work? Or is the Abbot the only one allowed to talk to women?”

  “If that were the case, I wouldn’t be speaking to you now,” he answered quietly. Too quietly.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that comment to sound provocative.”

  Suddenly he turned and faced her once more. “Why apologize?”

  At the boldness of his question, she had no comeback because a river of heat unexpectedly coursed through her body.

  “You’re not the first curious woman to cross over this threshold, intrigued by a man’s decision to remain celibate. No doubt someone with your looks would find that decision incomprehensible.”

  “My looks?” She could feel her indignation kindling.

  “Come now, Ms. Mallory. You know very well your impact on a man, otherwise you would have framed your question differently.” His gaze dropped lower. “You would have dressed in something less appealing. Only a woman with your kind of confidence lets nothing get in her way, not even the indisposition of Father Ambrose.”

  If she were a violent person, she would have slapped him. “I’m not surprised you’ve ended up in here, shut away from the world. Only God would be able to forgive your arrogance, not to mention your colossal rudeness to a stranger.”

  “You’ve left out a number of my major sins. In any event, I apologize for offending you.”

  “You don’t talk like a monk.”

  His hands stilled on the counter. “How does a monk talk?”

  She didn’t have an answer for that. She had never known one. Paul had arranged things with the Abbot. In her opinion they were a different breed of men, wanting to be cloistered away from the world to worship.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve shattered your illusions, but monks are ordinary people of flesh and blood. In some cases they’re just as prone to flaws as the rest of the world.”

  “So I’m discovering.” His frankness had come as a complete shock. “Is that what you want me to include in my article?” she challenged when she could find her voice.

  “What I want is immaterial. Without Father Ambrose’s consent, there won’t be one.”

  “And if you could influence his decision, he wouldn’t agree to make another appointment. It may interest you to know that I was sent on this assignment because a colleague from the magazine doing this part of the layout is ill with the flu. I didn’t come here with the intention of giving sex-starved celibates their thrill for the morning.”

  With her cheeks glowing hot she added, “Judging by your reaction, it appears my presence has titillated you. No doubt your tortured conscience will force you to give yourself some sort of penance which you richly deserve.”

  At the entry to the room she paused to shift her camera to her other shoulder. “Tell the Abbot that someone from the magazine will call to make another appointment. Have a good day.”

  She overcame the urge to slam the door in his face, then left the monastery without looking back. Her joy in the beauty of the morning had evaporated as if it had never been.

  Andre Benet could smell the faint scent of peaches from her shampoo which lingered in the air after she stormed out of the gift shop.

  He’d been rude to her. Exceedingly rude, yet he couldn’t summon any guilt. She wasn’t that different from his own birth mother, a woman who lit her own fires. A bewitching woman who went where angels feared to tread and never counted the cost.

  His own mother had known of his father’s proclivity for the priesthood, yet she’d tempted him before he’d gone away. Andre had been the result.

  He wondered if it was a coincidence that Ms. Mallory had worn a peach-colored, two-piece suit. Even her skin had the proverbial peaches and cream glow. Combine this with gossamer hair, and no man would be totally immune, not even a monk, and she knew it!

  Apparently his mother had possessed that same kind of haunting beauty and allure. Enough for his father to sleep with her one more time before he went his separate way.

  Andre understood that kind of desire well enough. If he were an artist, he wouldn’t be able to resist capturing the vision of Ms. Mallory on canvas. But he wasn’t an artist, and certainly no monk.

  As far as he knew, he had no particular talents. Orphaned at birth, he’d been raised in New Orleans by his Aunt Maudelle, an embittered but basically good woman who worked as a seamstress.

  Enamored of the big boats traveling up and down the Mississippi, he had left home in his teens to see the world, working on freighters in various capacities until he’d become a merchant seaman.

  In time he became good friends with a Swiss who spoke four languages fluently. Envious of his friend’s ability, Andre enrolled at the university in Zurich where he studied German and French along with history. Though he could have gone into teaching with his degree, Andre returned to the sea, a job that allowed him latitude to keep on the move.

  He stayed in touch with Maudelle and always sent her money. On the rare occasion, he came home to New Orleans for a short visit, but nothing could anchor his soul or curb his restlessness, certainly not a wife. Females were to be enjoyed, nothing more. Maudelle despaired of his attitude and prayed daily for his spiritual welfare.

  He always laughed, but his amusement had vanished when a month ago a close friend of his aunt’s actually spent the money to phone him aboard ship along the Bosporus and beg him to come home. His aunt was ill.

  Andre had a gut feeling it might be fatal. Taking the next flight out of Ankara, Turkey, he found her on the point of death. Though he had never been a churchgoer and had no religious views, he knew she was a good Catholic so he called her parish for someone to come and administer the last rites.

  While he held her hand and waited for a priest to appear, Maudelle began her confession. He had heard of deathbed repentance, but he’d never given it any thought. Not until certain revelations began pouring from her mouth.

  Her confession had turned Andre’s life inside out and had brought him to Salt Lake City, Utah, a place he had always thought of as the back of beyond, a wasteland the hated Mormon Pioneers of the 1840s had been driven to found during America’s Western Expansion, a place no one else on earth wanted.

  Andre loved the water.

  The great Salt Lake Desert with its great Salt Sea was anathema to him. Yet here he was on temporary leave from his job…a stranger in a strange land…living in undreamed-of circumstances.

  He could scarcely credit that he was really alive, except for the lingering scent of peaches which was a powerful reminder of his mortality. And, of course, the ailing monk lying down in his cell-like room at the other end of the sanctuary. A monk known to the world as Abbot Ambrose, Andre’s biological father, born Charles Ambrose sixty-six years earlier to parents of English and French heritage.

  According to Father Joseph, recurring bouts of pneumonia had aged his father a good ten years. The gaunt, frail monk was a shell of his former self.

  As Andre let himself inside the room, his father turned his head and stared up at him. “Did you show the journalist around?”

  “No. I told her you’d be better in a week. You’ve spent your life’s work building this monastery to what it is today. No one else should give her your story but you.”

  His father lifted his hand. “I have done nothing. It is all God’s handiwork, my son.”

  “Whatever you say, Father. Nevertheless, we’ll let you get your strength back so you can be the one to guide the interview.”

  “I won’t recover this time.”

  “Nonsense,” Andre snapped. To lose the father he had just found, the parent he desperately wanted and needed to get to know, was killing him. “I’m sending an ambulance for you. You should be in a hospital and waited on.”


  “No.” The older man wheezed, struggling for breath. “No hospital for me. I always hated them.”

  Another thing Andre and his father had in common.

  So many things.

  So many years gone by that they had been denied a knowledge of each other.

  “You’re my greatest earthly comfort now. Come closer. It’s a joy to talk to the son of my flesh. You’re a divine gift at my last hour.”

  That had to be a lie.

  Andre’s sudden appearance at the monastery ten days ago announcing that he was the Abbot’s son, had come as such a great shock, Andre was convinced his pneumonia had taken a turn for the worse.

  No matter how much his father denied it, Andre knew the truth. He was the one responsible for the older man’s present condition. It weighted Andre with fresh grief.

  “You are not to blame for anything, my son. Indeed, you are a victim, and my heart grieves that you’ve been robbed of your family.

  “If there is an accusing finger, it should be pointed at me for taking my pleasure with your mother before I said my final vows to become a monk. It was the most selfish thing I have ever done, and entirely unfair to you and your mother.”

  Andre’s head reared back. “According to Aunt Maudelle, my mother tempted you beyond your endurance.”

  He raised his hand once more, then it fell back at his side. “Maudelle was your mother’s elder sister. She never married, never knew a man. Her jealousy of Lisette made her say unkind things.

  “Don’t believe her accusations. A man cannot be tempted unless he allows himself to be, my son. You’ve been in the world. You know that’s true.”

  Andre did know.

  “Your mother’s family was French. She was very beautiful. I see so much of Lisette in your black hair, your eyes,” he cried softly before the coughing took over. “Though I had always wanted to serve God, I loved her, too. My heart was torn because of conflicting loyalties.

  “If she had let me know she was pregnant with you, I would have married her. Maybe a part of me was hoping it would happen. I told her I was being sent to Utah, but she remained silent. I never saw or heard from her again. I had no idea she died of complications after you were born.” Tears rolled down his flushed cheeks.