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the steel of his muscles beneath the cover of his coat. His fingers would be rough against the softness of her skin. His kiss would be—
    Jenny started. Oh, bother. Had she lost her sense entirely?
    Perhaps she had. She was seriously considering her mother’s idea.
    What was she thinking? He’d never noticed her before, what made her think he’d notice her now? What made her think he’d even consider such a fate as marriage?
    Fate. There was that word again.
    Was Trace McBride her fate? Could he save her from the rumor of The Bad Luck Wedding Dress? Could he help her save Fortune’s Design?
    She wouldn’t know unless she did a little exploring. Was she brave enough, woman enough, to try?
    She was Jenny Fortune. What more was there to say?
    Taking a deep breath, Jenny pinched her cheeks, fluffed her honey-colored hair, and walked out into the shop.

If you break your washpot, you will have twenty years bad luck.

    CHAPTER 3

    TRACE STOOD AWKWARDLY BETWEEN a rack of ribbons and lace and a naked dressmaker’s form. He’d been in the shop before but always with his daughters. Something about all the froufrou and furbelows in this place made his neck itch. He didn’t want to think it might be the woman.
    Jenny Fortune wasn’t his type at all. The question of plain or pretty aside, she was respectable and acquainted with his girls—reason enough for him to maintain his distance. Trace had a firm rule to remain on a nodding- acquaintance-only basis with any woman his daughters might consider a prospective mother. He wouldn’t have them hurt, and since he’d never—under any circumstances—marry again, he didn’t want them getting their hopes up.
    Despite all his good intentions, when the woman in question emerged from the back of the shop, he found himself fighting a strong surge of lust. Must be the tears, he tried to tell himself. He’d always been a sucker for a lady’s tears.
    Except Jenny Fortune wasn’t crying. Oh, her face showed signs of an earlier bout of blubbering, but she certainly wasn’t teary at the moment. The dressmaker had her hair down and she was smiling. It threw him off balance.
    As did the memory of his peephole vision.
    This Jenny Fortune was pretty. Bordering on beautiful, in fact. A tawny gold complexion, bright blue eyes. More curves than a barrel of snakes.
    Damn him for a fool. Why had he allowed spectacles and a forthright manner to distract him? How could he have never noticed? If he’d taken one good look at the woman, he’d have rented this shop to the doctor who wanted the space. It didn’t matter that he’d liked her or that he’d appreciated her contract negotiating skills. Trace would never have done business with a beautiful, respectable woman.
    He’d learned the hard way they couldn’t be trusted worth beans.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. McBride,” she said, warmth glowing in her eyes. “What can I do for you?”
    She had a Tennessee sipping-whiskey voice, mellow and rich. A surprising number of answers to her question flitted through his mind. He cleared his throat before saying, “I want a dress.”
    “I see.” Humor added a spark to her eyes that Trace found captivating. And distracting. He hardly took note of what she asked. “Will this dress be for a particular occasion or for everyday?”
    “Everyday.” It was more than just beauty. Something about Jenny Fortune’s manner was different this afternoon, too. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever it was, she simmered with it. It made him simmer more than a little, himself.
    “What sort of materials do you prefer?” With a graceful sweep of her arm, she gestured to a stack of cloth bolts lying atop a counter.
    Bold, that was part of it. She had a boldness about her today, from the look in her eyes to where she positioned herself in the room—just a tad too close but not near close enough. “Materials?”
    She lifted a tape measure from a basket. “Percale, cashmere, bouclé…”
    His stare