by Nancy Warren
With a tiny sigh in the direction of Neiman Marcus, she headed for the food court, where she bought herself a cup of coffee, sat at one of the round plastic tables, and settled back to observe.
She took a survey of the morning coffee drinkers and sticky-bun eaters, some obviously fueling up for a morning’s shopping, some grabbing a quick snack on a work break, and some at leisure. She’d doubted there’d be any potential clients in a shopping center food court, but after spending a few minutes regarding a young couple talking earnestly, she moved closer, choosing a table where she had a clear view of the pair, was close enough to hear a bit of what was said, but not so close as to inhibit them or even worse, cause them to leave. Though, frankly, she doubted they’d have noticed if she posed herself naked at the next table, they were that wrapped up in their conversation.
She drew today’s newspaper out of her bag, propped it in front of her so she’d appear occupied if the intense couple should glance her way, and proceeded to watch human drama. Chloe had never understood the appeal of reality shows on telly—the ones that played out in life were always so much more entertaining.
The pair were both in their early twenties. He wore a department store suit and an unimaginative striped tie. He had brown hair and glasses—the kind of Clark Kent who, sadly, have no alter ego superpower. The young woman had long dark hair clipped back off her face, large dark eyes, and a full-lipped mouth. Her clothing suggested a lot more personality than her companion’s. She wore a soft, peasanty blouse in yellow and blue, a tight black skirt, and high-heeled sandals. A tattoo of a tiny dragon hovered over her ankle.
They were both leaning forward, so intent on each other that their coffees sat in front of them untouched.
“On a stakeout?” The male voice behind her startled her so much that she slopped coffee onto her newspaper. She turned to glare, having already recognized the voice of her very annoying neighbor.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
She sighed as he walked around in front of her. “You’re going to be one of those annoying men, aren’t you?”
“What annoying men?”
“The ones who follow me around and make fools of themselves.”
He looked a bit stunned. Well, no man liked to be told he was making a fool of himself, and normally she’d have been gentler about letting him down, but she had a schedule to keep.
“You actually think I’m following you because I’m—I’m—” He ran out of words, so she helped him out.
“Besotted?” She’d seen the male interest in his eyes when he looked at her, something that happened to her so often it only registered when she felt a return sizzle.
“I told you, I have a girlfriend. We’re probably getting married.”
“You barged into my house at an ungodly hour of the morning, hid from your girlfriend, and now you’re following me. What am I supposed to think?”
“Try this—that I didn’t believe your story this morning. I’m trying to figure out what you’re doing.”
She wasn’t entirely sure she believed him, but he didn’t really fit the profile of her usual lovesick admirer. Assuming he really did want to know what her business was, she could tell him, and then he’d go away. But somehow she knew he’d make fun of her and she wasn’t in the mood for mockery.
Besides, actions spoke much louder than words. She planned to use her actions like a bullhorn in his direction. That would wipe the smirk off his face.
He sat across from her without permission. She considered making an issue of it, but that would only draw attention, so, instead, she handed him a section of the paper and pretended to read her own.
The paper rustled as he spread out the pages. “Sports.” he said. “How sexist.” Remembering their earlier conversation in her kitchen, she found herself smiling.
She leaned toward him. “I’m having a quick coffee before work, that’s all.”
“Why are you watching those two?” He didn’t incline his head, he merely cut his eyes to the table she’d been observing. Damn.
“I like people watching,” she said.
“What’s so interesting about them? They’re talking about how great last night was and when they can do it again.”
She shook her head. “No. Their conversation has nothing to do with sex. They’re more emotional. That relationship’s on the rocks.”
“And they come to a shopping mall food court for a heart to heart?” He reached for her coffee without asking and took a sip. He grimaced. “Too much sugar.”
“Then get your own coffee,” she said, taking hers back.
“I’m blending in with your cover,” he explained, sounding serious and looking anything but. “We’ll let those two and anyone else watching think we’re too busy talking about our great sex life to have any attention to spare.”
“We don’t have a great sex life,” she snapped, then immediately realized her mistake when she saw his smile dawn, slow and sexy.
“You don’t know that.” He didn’t say yet—couldn’t, of course, with Brittany busy making coffee cakes and planning a lavish wedding, no doubt with far too many frills. Still, the attraction was as undeniable as the heat waiting outside to slap her when she left the relative coolness of the air-conditioned shopping center.
Damn, damn, damn. She did not have time for this. Even as the thought passed through her mind, she found herself tingling with the thrill of attraction. He was so long and tall and sexy, so down to earth, and she was so tired of European playboys.
To avoid the issue of attraction, she ignored his provocation and answered his earlier question. “Those two are here because it’s convenient for them. Close to work for both.” She didn’t have to look back at the pair to visualize them in her mind and make a reasonable guess. “He’s an assistant manager at one of the shops in the mall and she’s… in the juniors clothing section at Penney’s.”
“You know them?”
“No. I’m guessing.”
He shook his head. “He’s a junior banker. She’s a florist.”
“A florist?”
He shrugged. “She likes color. Texture. I’m guessing flowers. And that is definitely a sex thing they’re talking about.”
She shook her head. “A breakup.”
“Twenty bucks says I’m right.”
“Twenty doesn’t sound very sure. Fifty.” Of course, she shouldn’t be gambling. She should be hoarding her resources until she got her company firmly up and running, but the thousand dollars had gone to her head. Besides, something about playing games with Matthew—any kind of games—was exciting.
“You’re on.”
Now they were both focused on the adjacent table, so they both witnessed the young man take a diamond ring out of his pocket and offer it to the girl.
“Damn,” said Matt. “We were both wrong. They’re getting engaged. What do you give the chances of that marriage? Getting engaged in a mall.”
“No,” she said, satisfaction sluicing through her. “He’s giving her back the ring. It was in his pocket, not in a box. And she’s not at all sure she wants it back.” Instead of placing it on her ring finger, the man had offered it on the palm of his hand, like a supplication. After a long moment, where more than fifty dollars seemed to hang in the balance, the woman reached over and picked up the ring. She slipped the reasonably sized rock on her wedding ring finger, but Chloe could see she was uncertain. The young woman turned the sparkly ring around a few times on her finger. Clark Kent watched her as eagerly as a puppy watches his empty bowl at mealtime.
“Not bad,” Matt said beside her in a low voice.
“Not bad? Bloody brilliant detective work. Now do you believe that I am a private eye?”
The tanned skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Not hardly.”
“But you will pay me fifty dollars.”
During the time it took Chloe to finish her coffee, she became completely convinced that th
e couple beside her was making a mistake. The young man rose and leaned over the table to kiss his fiancée. As he walked away, the girl looked after him, a frown marring her prettiness.
“Follow him,” she said to Matthew, who blinked and looked after the departing suit.
“Why?”
“It would give you something better to do than following me, that’s why. Besides, I don’t like the look of him.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Tough to explain, really, but I have good instincts.”
“You’re a case and a half, Chloe. And if you want my advice, you’ll leave that girl in peace.”
She beamed at him, giving him her best smile. “Advice is such a fascinating thing, isn’t it? Everybody always trying to give it away, and nobody ever wanting it.”
He rose, to a deliciously tall height. Pulled out his wallet and slapped three bills on the table. “Good-bye, Chloe.”
Two twenties and a ten. Classy. She liked a man who paid his bills.
She collected her winnings and waved him off, anxious to see the back of him before that girl moved. She hadn’t; she was still staring at the diamond on her hand as though it might bite her if she moved too quickly.
Chloe leaned forward and assumed an excited tone. “Congratulations.”
“Hmm?” The girl looked up and her big brown eyes were troubled. Bingo.
Chloe was never wrong about who belonged with whom. With the extraordinary exception of herself and the men she chose.
Since the girl seemed too stunned to move, Chloe slid from her own table and took the seat across from her, the one recently vacated by the young man.
“I couldn’t help but notice—frankly, jewelry always catches my attention. Did you just get engaged?”
The girl nodded slowly, looking far from deliciously pink with bridal delight. “Well, we got re-engaged, I guess you’d say.”
“Ooh, I do love a good romance.” She put her chin in her palm and prepared to listen. “Tell all.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Of course you don’t. How rude of me. I’m Chloe.” She held out her hand and the girl shook it, albeit rather reluctantly.
“I should probably…”
“Sometimes I find it easier to tell a stranger my troubles. Odd, isn’t it? Mummy and Daddy always think they know best for me, of course, and frankly I think I shock them. I’ve got an older brother, Jack, who says I’m spoilt. He’s right, of course, but that’s not the point. Sometimes a girl needs to talk. The urge to unburden oneself is easier satisfied with a stranger.”
The girl gave up and sighed deeply. “I guess you’re right. It’s not like my family would understand.”
“When is the wedding?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to get married—not yet—but Derek really loves me and maybe my friends are right and I should just do this, you know?”
Chloe knew all about friends and family trying to push one into marriage. “But do you love him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why on earth would your friends want you to marry him?”
“Because I have lousy, rotten taste in guys and at least this one has a regular job, no tattoos, and he won’t get drunk and try and hit on other women all the time.”
“Is that what your last boyfriend did?”
“Pretty much all my old boyfriends.”
Chloe thought for a minute. “But you have a tattoo. I couldn’t help but notice. I like it.”
“Derek wants me to get it lasered off. He thinks it looks cheap.”
“My dear girl—what is your name, by the way?”
“Oh, sorry—Stephanie.”
“Well, Stephanie, you cannot possibly marry a man you do not love and who wants to change you. It’s hopeless.”
To Chloe’s alarm, Stephanie’s eyes suddenly filled. “I know it’s hopeless. I’m hopeless.”
Chloe pulled out her pack of tissues with tiaras printed on them and offered it. “Of course you’re not hopeless. You’re simply a little confused. It happens to all of us.” She glanced at the ring. “At least he has nice taste in jewelry.”
Stephanie dabbed at her eyes. “He’s the assistant manager at the jewelry store in the mall. We got forty percent off on my ring.”
“I wonder if I could be of service.”
“I doubt it.”
Undaunted by the negative tone, Chloe pulled out one of her cards and slid it across the table. Stephanie picked it up and read it with a puzzled frown. “I don’t get it. You’re a matchmaking service?”
“Oh, no. Quite the opposite. I end bad relationships. In complete confidence, of course. I do the dirty work so you don’t have to.”
For a second, Stephanie’s eyes lit up, then they dimmed as suddenly. “I don’t make much money, and I have nothing saved. I couldn’t pay you.”
“Ah,” Chloe said. The hard-nosed businesswoman in her knew she should walk away. She couldn’t afford to take on free cases when she didn’t have many that paid. However, she also felt very strongly that Stephanie shouldn’t marry a self-important twit in a bad suit.
She had a brilliant idea. People called her impulsive, but her opinion of impulses was that if she didn’t grab onto them in the moment, they would pass. “I know—why don’t you come and work for me?”
“I thought you wanted me to hire you.”
“Well, that would be preferable, of course. But, since you don’t have any money and you obviously need a change, it seems obvious to me that I shall have to give you a job.”
“In your matchbreaking company?”
“Exactly.”
“What would I do?”
“I need a secretary. Receptionist. Someone to answer the phone when I’m away from the office and to do—” She stopped to think for a moment. “—all the jobs I don’t like doing.”
“Oh.”
“Can you type?”
She received a look of astonishment. “How do you think I message all my friends?”
“Right. Of course. Good.” She was really warming up to her idea. When she’d awakened this morning she’d had no idea she needed an assistant. Now she could see it was critical to her future. “You’ll know all the places where I should be advertising my services.” She smiled, full of excitement. “Our services. You can screen the customers, make up files, do the billing.” She screwed up her face. “I hate boring things like paperwork. When can you start?”
The bright face dimmed. “I can’t.” Stephanie looked down at that ring as though it contained a genie and three wishes. “I couldn’t. I have to marry Derek. You don’t understand. He’s perfect for me. My family says so, my friends say so. I know he is.”
Chloe felt a chord of sympathy chime through her in response. “God, yes, I know exactly what you mean.”
She looked up. “You do?”
“Every time I got engaged it was to a man who was perfect for me.”
The girl in front of her blinked slowly. “Every time?”
“Mmm. I’ve been engaged three times. But everybody was wrong. None of those men was right for me.”
“I bet you never had your wedding stationery already ordered.”
Chloe chuckled. “The last time, I had the estate booked, the catering paid for, the prettiest dress.” She sighed. “It did give me a pang not to wear that dress. It was antique silk with rows of tiny pearls on the bodice. Really lovely. Anyway, it caused the most fearful row when I canceled.”
“What about…” She threw up her hands. “Everything.”
“Oh, well, it worked out rather well in the end. The Earl of Ponsford, whose estate we’d booked for the wedding, took the spot himself and married a darling girl. An American, actually. So nothing went to waste, you see. Well, except the dress. I gave it to charity. I like to think some poor girl was able to wear a really smashing dress because of me.” She beamed suddenly. “So, you see, there’s nothing that can’t be undone. One simply needs
resolution.”
For a moment the girl bit her lip and looked hopeful. Then she shook her head. “No. I can’t do it.”
“All right.” She wasn’t about to beg. “Still, if you change your mind about the job, or know of anyone who might need my services, do let me know.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and put a hand over the girl’s newly beringed one. “Good luck.”
Chapter 5
Stephanie watched the English girl walk away. She walked quickly, as though she had a lot to do and no time to waste, but there was also something about that walk—Steph would have guessed she’d been a model if she’d been taller. She was gorgeous. Like a perfume ad come to life. Elegant and expensive looking. But there was something that was almost childlike about her. Imagine offering a job to a total stranger.
She picked up the card, tapped it against her palm, put it back down on the tabletop, rose, and walked away. She didn’t even make it to the edge of the food court before quickly turning tail and retrieving the card. She might know someone, after all, who needed help breaking up.
She stood there, the ring weighing down her hand like a diamond anchor, holding her in place. That was good, she reminded herself. Marriage was steadying. Good.
She had about twenty minutes before her shift started. She’d go look at china, she decided, start getting ideas for the gift registry.
She walked to the rail of the gallery level of the shopping center, and gazed down. There was a lone man riding up the escalator. He wore jeans that were ripped at the knee—obviously from impact rather than design. His leather boots were scruffy and worn, as was he. His hair was a too-long dark brown streaked with blond, which made her think the guy worked outside in the sun without a hat. His face was weatherbeaten, and careless stubble shadowed it. He wore a battered leather jacket open over a black T-shirt and from his hand swung a black motorcycle helmet.
He glanced up as though he felt her watching him and the dark Latino brown of his eyes saw right inside of her. The impact thudded into her chest and she knew he’d felt it too. He had a poet’s eyes, she thought, which was ridiculous. What would a poet’s eyes be doing in a thug’s body? Those eyes held hers, practically speaking to her of hidden things, secret things, that made her body long instinctively for his. He was coming closer, floating up on a mechanical staircase. Soon they’d be level and she had the craziest idea that she’d be lost.
