Perfect Partners

Seattle. Morgan had been raised on a mid-western farm, and some of his past still showed in his sturdy frame and broad shoulders.
    But nothing else about Morgan reflected his early years as a farm boy. He was in his early fifties and, according to Charlie, had lost his first wife five years earlier. With his bushy brows, a neatly trimmed gray beard and an air of academic pomposity, Morgan perfectly suited Joel’s image of a college professor. Joel had nothing against Morgan. On the couple of occasions when they had met, the man had been gracious and civil. Joel respected intelligence, and there was no denying Morgan Thornquist was highly intelligent.
    The same could be said of his current wife, the tall, ice-cool, very pregnant blonde seated on Morgan’s right. Stephanie Thornquist was, by all accounts, just as brilliant as her husband. Forty years old, she was a professor in the department of linguistics at Ridgemore College.
    There was no denying Stephanie was a striking woman. Her features were patrician, her figure tall and elegant, even in pregnancy. Her silver-blond hair was cut in a very short, very sleek, very angular style that was at once modern and timeless. Her cool blue eyes reflected the same serene intelligence one noticed in her husband.
    Having at least made the acquaintance of Morgan and Stephanie, Joel had a fair idea of what to expect from them. They were neither a direct threat nor a mystery. His new boss, on the other hand, was both.
    Joel’s gaze slid almost reluctantly to the young woman seated on Morgan Thornquist’s left. He had not yet met Letitia Thornquist, and he was not looking forward to the experience.
    From where he was standing he could not see her face very clearly, mostly because she kept sniffling into a huge hankie. Ms. Thornquist was the only one in the small crowd who was crying. She did so with some enthusiasm, Joel noticed.
    Joel’s first impression of the new owner of Thornquist Gear was that she bore no resemblance whatsoever to her stepmother. Instead of being tall, elegant, and blond, she appeared to be short, rumpled, and definitely not blond.
    In fact, the thick, wild mane of honeyed brown hair was the first thing Joel really noticed about her. She had made an obvious effort to anchor the unruly mass in a severe topknot, but the entire affair was already slipping its moorings. Tendrils of hair had wriggled free of the gold clip and gone exploring on their own. Some dangled down the soft nape of her neck; others were darting playfully over her brows and curled down her cheeks.
    Charlie had told him once in passing that Letty was twenty-nine years old. Charlie had also mentioned the name of the college where she worked as a librarian, but Joel had since forgotten. He tried to recall the name of the institution—Valmont or Vellcourt, something like that.
    At that instant Letitia Thornquist turned around and saw him watching her. Joel did not look away as she peered at him through a pair of round tortoiseshell frames. Her eyes were large and curious. The little round glasses and the high arch of her dark brows combined to give her a look of wide-eyed innocence. It reminded Joel of the expression on the face of an inquisitive young kitten.
    She frowned thoughtfully at Joel, apparently trying to figure out who he was and what he was doing there.
    He realized with a small shock of interest that she had a nice full mouth. He also noticed that the jacket of her suit appeared to be rumpled, at least in part, due to a certain roundness of her figure. She was not the least bit heavy, he saw, just pleasantly curved in all the right places. There was a certain earthy sensuality about her. This was the kind of woman men secretly pictured in their minds when they thought of home and hearth and babies.
    Joel groaned inwardly. As if he did not have enough problems on his hands. Now he had to figure out how to do business with a bright-eyed innocent who looked as if she should be toiling over a hot stove with a couple of toddlers playing around her feet.
    On the other hand, he told himself encouragingly, if Letitia Thornquist was what she appeared to be—a naive midwestern librarian—he should be able to handle her. He would make her the same offer he had made Charlie.
    With any luck Ms. Thornquist would jump at the chance to get rich in a few months and hop the next plane back to Kansas, or wherever it was she came from. There was supposed to be a fiancé in the picture