Actually, it is. Sort of

"Actually, it is. Sort of." Cat leaned forward, her

expression earnest. "You and Devon had a business

arrangement, right?" She didn't wait for him to respond but

hurried on as if she had to get it all out at once. "You need

to be married before your thirty-sixth birthday, and it

apparently doesn't matter who you marry so ..."She gave

him a self-conscious little shrug. "Why not me?"

Why not her? There were so many reasons why not her

that Luke didn't know which one to mention first.

"You're too damned young for one thing," he said, coming

up with the first and most obvious problem. "How old are

you, anyway?"

"Twenty-one," she said indignantly, then bit her lip. "In

five months."

"Twenty? You're twenty?" Luke shot to his feet, snatching

up the brandy snifter on the way to the bar. "Do you know

how old I am?"

"Is this a test?" Cat turned to watch him as he splashed a

healthy dose of brandy into the snifter.

"I'm thirty-five," he said, ignoring her question. "I'm

twice your age."

"You're off by five years."

"Don't split hairs." He picked up the brandy snifter and

stalked back to the sitting area. He stood in front of the

sofa and scowled down at her. "I'm old enough to be your

father."

"Technically, I guess, if you were on the precocious side

but, since you're not my father, I don't see that we have a

problem."

Luke pointed the brandy snifter at her. "Thirty-five-yearold men do not marry twenty-year-old girls."

"Sure they do. I could be your trophy wife."

She said it with such bright good cheer that Luke was

startled into laughing. But he still shook his head. "No. I'm

not in the market for a trophy wife. The whole idea is

crazy."

"Not really." Cat rose to her feet, apparently too

enthused by this crazy idea to remain still.

Luke told himself that the fact that she had legs a mile

long and curves in all the right places was not relevant to

the current discussion, but he couldn't help but notice that

he would only have to lower his head a few inches to kiss

her. Not that he had any intention of kissing her, but still, it

was ... interesting. His tastes had always run to short, busty

blondes, but he had to admit, there was something to be

said for a tall, leggy redhead with big green eyes and a

mouth that seemed made for temptation.

"It really makes perfect sense." She threw out one hand

for emphasis, and Luke found his eyes dropping to her

breasts. Was she wearing a bra? It was hard to tell under

the bulky knit of her sweater. Funny, how the over-size

sweater managed to conceal everything and still sexy as

hell. Or maybe it was just Cat who was sexy hell. He took a

sip of brandy and tried to pay attention to what she was

saying.

"I know I'm not as pretty as Devon."

No, but she had something that outshone her not-quite

stepsister's chocolate box prettiness. There was something

very real about Cat, an earthiness that made a man think

all kinds of things he had no business thinking when he was

definitely not going to do anything about what he wasn't

thinking about.

"And I'll tell you right up front that I can't do anything

about my hair."

Luke could think of lots of things he would like to do with

her hair, most of them X-rated.

"It's red and it's curly, and if I cut it short, it just frizzes

up like a pot scrubber."

"I like your hair," he said and caught himself before he

could reach for it.

"Really?" Cat looked doubtful, then shrugged, as if to say

it took all kids. "Good, because I'm stuck with it. And I've

got to tell you that if you have your heart set on marrying

someone with decorating talent, we might as well forget

the whole idea right here and now."

Hadn't he already said that? He wasn't actually

considering this insane idea, was he? If he wanted a

decorator, he could hire one, the way he'd hired Devon to

redecorate the company offices. "I don't need a decorator,"

he said, and was rewarded by Cat's smile.

"Good, because I have the decorating talent of an

amoeba. I've flipped through a bunch of Devon's decorating

magazines, but unless the room they're showing looks

exactly like the room I want to decorate―and it never

does―I can't figure out how I'm supposed to translate the

ideas in the picture to real-life."

A stray beam of late afternoon sunlight slanted through

the window and fell across her hair, turning it to pure fire.

Luke's fingers tingled with the urge to touch, to see if it

could possibly feel as warm as it looked.

"But I'm not a total loss as far as traditional wife stuff is

concerned," Cat continued, apparently through listing the

drawbacks to this insane idea of hers. "I can cook. Actually,

I'm a pretty good cook. You know Jack's Place on Melrose?"

She waited until Luke nodded. "Jack Reynolds is a friend of

mine, and even he admits I'm no slouch in the kitchen."

Luke didn't really care if she could boil water without

help, but he had to admit it was a pretty impressive

reference. Since it had opened three years ago, Jack's Place

had become one of the places to go in L.A. He'd taken

clients there a couple of times, and the food was superb. If

Jack Reynolds said Cat was a good cook, Luke would take

his word for it.

"And I'm good at managing things."

"Managing things?" Despite the fact that he'd already

made up his mind that this whole idea was crazy, Luke

couldn't resist the urge to pursue that comment.

"Household stuff, mostly," Cat clarified. "My mother

wasn't exactly the most practical person in the world, so I

sort of watched out for her, made sure she didn't spend all

our money on some spiritual quest and forget all about

buying food and paying the rent. And Larry is pretty much

the classic absentminded professor. If someone didn't look

after things, he'd probably cook the cat and put food out for

the pot roast." Her smile held affectionate amusement. "So

I've been managing things for him pretty much since Naomi

dumped me in his lap. Some people just aren't cut out for

dealing with day-to-day things."