“Right.” Edward dismissed this fact with an absent wave of his hand. How could he forget? Perhaps he needed this getaway more than he’d figured. As vice president of his father’s luxury hotel chain, he was responsible for steering the family fortune in the resort industry’s fast-moving climate. If only he had twenty-five hours in a day instead of twenty-four.
He checked his cellphone. He was expecting an important business call from his sister Karen—who was in charge of operations—regarding another acquisition. Briefly, he frowned, noting she hadn’t rung yet. She’d probably gotten caught up in her investigation. Her current husband’s illicit liaisons, although elusive, had been a source of upset for her and the entire family and she was attempting to find enough proof to end the marriage.
With a sigh, he stepped back and took in the ornateness of the lobby. A trickling fountain, showy-blue sofas and scores of dense-green houseplants created a restful ambiance. He particularly liked the touch of tropical fish swimming in the two-story aquarium. Perhaps his next resort property could feature …
No, no, no. He needed to think of something other than business. He needed to allow himself time to unwind.
Pierre spoke to him, drawing his attention from the hypnotic aquarium. “May I also mention les Calanche Cliffs are nearby, monsieur? They are world renowned.” Pierre displayed a mouthful of white teeth, smiling as if he were imparting the most exciting announcement of his career. He’d obviously been well-schooled in the art of hotel service.
“Very good.” Absently, Edward checked his cell phone again.
“And dinner will be served at eight o’clock on our terrace overlooking the sea.”
“Then I’ll meet this Perfect Match woman at dinner. No need to alert me of her arrival ahead of time.”
Pierre raised an eyebrow in seeming approval. “We’ll keep the special unveiling of your match a surprise then, oui?”
Edward inclined his head but couldn’t help his grimace. “By all means.”
He didn’t like surprises. This one couldn’t be helped.
Pierre tended to folding the washcloth on the counter, politely ignoring Edward’s lack of enthusiasm. “Will that be all, monsieur?”
Edward hung back. He’d acted curt to the friendly concierge. To make amends he offered, “Those cliffs you mentioned …”
Pierre brightened. “Les Calanche Cliffs.”
“Are they conducive for hiking?”
“Oui. Miles and miles of trails. The entire island features numerous activities, both tamed and untamed.”
“Excellent.” Edward grabbed his luggage. “I’m an outdoorsman.”
Pierre handed him two keys. “One is for the pool and gym space,” he explained. “The other is for your suite, number 201A. Take the elevator or staircase on your left.”
Edward turned away. “Merci, Pierre. Cheers.”
“May you find your true love in our one-of-a-kind paradise,” Pierre called after him, loud enough for the entire lobby to overhear.
Edward swiveled. At his raised eyebrows, Pierre explained, “Mr. Yates’s words, monsieur, not mine.”
With a succinct nod, Edward turned away again, but then he lingered, his gaze fixed on a pair of cardinal tetras swimming in the aquarium. A host of other tropical fish in neon colors, silvers and stripes, swam alongside.
An all-expense-paid holiday in stunning Corsica wasn’t the reason he was here, and he was tempted to tell Pierre that. Nor was it to find the woman of his dreams, as if such a woman existed.
He pursed his lips together and blew out a long breath.
To his knowledge, his two younger adult brothers had never experienced love, that warm, tingly sensation that prompted besotted men to write poems and become blind to common sense. And his sister was certainly nowhere near genuine love in her married life. Only their parents seemed to have found it, their time-tested marriage having lasted thirty years.
Briefly, he considered strangling his friend Bentley for setting him up for this promotion. Bentley was in the hotel business also, although lately Edward had heard that Bentley’s business had dipped, largely due to being nudged out by competitors’ renovated hotels and absentee ownership. The fact was, Bentley was never around. He preferred partying and spending any profits.
At any rate, this Perfect Match prank was characteristic of Bentley, always out for a laugh at someone else’s expense. But what had started as a practical joke had quickly ballooned into two demands from Edward’s entrepreneurial father when he’d gotten wind of the news.
Demand one: Edward was to stake out Corsica for any available property to build another family-owned resort, preferably on a beach. Demand two: Edward was advised to seriously consider making Davinia DeVito, an Italian clothing-line heiress he’d been dating, his wife.
“Settle down, get married. A man needs stability in his life,” his father had fussed. “Marriage is what your late mother wanted for you, not you off philandering with every attractive woman in England.”
He wasn’t philandering, he’d wanted to tell his father. He was simply enjoying his twenties, and now his thirties.
Despite the lush surroundings of La Bonaparte Resort and its breathtaking view of Bonifacio, the old town in the distance, reservations about agreeing to this Perfect Match escapade were growing more well-founded by the minute. And any hopes that this pint-sized island was undiscovered had been dashed by the heavy traffic and congestion he’d experienced on his ride from the airport.
Glancing back at the reservation desk, Edward noted Pierre still observed him, albeit discreetly. A well-trained concierge who could double as a mind reader was an asset to any hotel, but they were sometimes a little too … curious. With a final nod in Pierre’s direction, Edward climbed the stairs, found his suite, and swung open the heavy door.
Outstanding. Posh and proper, decorated in creams and golds and navy blues, with gleaming natural light streaming through the windows. The suite boasted a living room, efficiency kitchen, large bedroom, and a bath with a raised marbled tub. Bottles of chilled mineral water and vases of orange lilies enhanced the sense of privilege.
He loosened his silk tie and set his luggage and briefcase near the cream-colored couch, decorated with throw pillows in rich tapestry.
A crystal bowl piled high with ripe peaches sat artfully on the coffee table alongside a glass of iced tea, sliced lemons and cubes of sugar. Somehow, an invisible employee had reached Edward’s room before he’d finished climbing the stairs.
He drained the tea, snagged a peach and unlocked the French doors leading to a railed balcony that held a wrought iron table and chairs. In the center of the table sat a terra-cotta vase brimming with tiny purple blooms.
He slid the vase aside, relaxed on a checkered pillowed chair and took a bite of the peach. The flowers’ fragrances and the salty sea scented the air, the peach was tangy and flavorful, and for the first time in months his muscles untightened.
He shrugged off his suit jacket, draped it on the other chair, and closed his eyes. After a quick shower, he’d take an invigorating swim.
And then he’d meet his Perfect Match …
Right, a bit of a damp squib.
He swallowed and shook his head. Anyone who knew him would vouch that he wasn’t husband material. And after dessert this evening, he’d present his side of the equation to the Perfect Match lady, before she pegged him out as the passport to remedy her no-doubt desperate marital status.
All the same, he grabbed the Perfect Match envelope from his jacket pocket and unsealed it.
The opening information stated he and the woman were meeting at eight for dinner. He already knew that thanks to the ever-efficient Pierre.
He unfolded the second sheet and read her profile:
Miss Irish Independence, Age 26
“When he takes me in his arms, He speaks to me softly, I see the world through rose-colored glasses.”—Edith Piaf, French singer, songwriter, and film actress.
I live f
or a hot cuppa tea and will share it with you.
I’m a good listener. But make no mistake, I follow my own dreams, not yours.
Love comes in many forms, and I believe in a commitment to one person.
Be warned … I’m a workaholic.
So she was indeed Irish, and a feisty independent woman. He chuckled. And a type-A personality from the sounds of it. Just like him.
He turned over her photo and his breath caught.
This was her? This woman was Maeve?
Right … well …
Her dark eyes held an impish twinkle. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled away from her face, enhancing high cheekbones and full pink lips. She was stunning, and he hadn’t expected that.
He placed her photo on the table, gazing at her for a long while. Then he reread her profile. I live for a hot cuppa tea and will share it with you. I’m a good listener.
Perhaps this Perfect Match setup wasn’t such a bad idea.
Maybe she loved the outdoors, as he did. Maybe they’d swim every evening after work, climb the cliffs, dine on exotic Corsican cuisine.
There was no obligation to see her again after the week was over, and enjoying life had always been his motto. In fact, he’d written it on his dating profile.
Emboldened by those thoughts, he grabbed his suit jacket and headed inside his suite to take a shower. He might be a workaholic, but he was still a man.
And besides, they both liked tea.
Chapter Three
Maeve’s anticipated five-hour plane trip from Dublin to Corsica had taken ten. After being delayed by inclement weather, the flight was unnervingly bumpy, and she’d lifted a grateful prayer when they landed in Corsica.
She rang her mother, relieved to hear that her brother, Owen, had received encouraging news at his doctor’s appointment that morning. The more time that passed, the lower the risk of recurrence. And Owen had been cancer free for over six months.
Feeling that, at least for the moment, that all was well in the world, she stepped from the black limousine that had picked her up from the airport to bring her to the small town in Porto where La Bonaparte Resort was located. The surrounding picturesque region was cited as one of the top ten places to visit in Europe. As she stepped onto the cobblestone street, she lifted her face to the balmy breeze. A bellhop loaded her bags onto a luggage cart, and she followed him up the stone steps of the hotel. Three stories high, the hotel’s exterior boasted a rustic wooden pattern. Like something out of this world, she reflected, with the backdrop of the fiery-red Mediterranean sun setting behind the hotel and les Calanche Cliffs spiraling upward in the distance.
She’d assumed the weather might be blindingly hot on the island, but the climate was decidedly comfortable. She was looking forward to a refreshing shower and an opportunity to change into clean, unwrinkled clothes. Her traveling outfit, a linen navy skirt, white cotton blouse and sensible leather flats, had looked polished and put together when she’d left her flat. Not so much now. Ruefully, she evened out her skirt to look presentable, then started to the check-in desk.
Awe at the lobby’s elegance slowed her pace, and she fingered the straps of the monogrammed jute tote she carried.
Was it too late to reconsider this trip?
Most definitely, she decided with a sigh. Even a one night-stay in a boutique hotel boasting Michelin status would cost a fortune in Euros to repay.
She caught a glimpse of a well-heeled tourist shouldering a designer purse. Clearly, a working-class woman like herself didn’t belong here, she thought. She pretended to look around, intent on studying the marbled floor for several beats rather than meet the other woman’s gaze.
Why, oh, why had she let Colleen talk her into this trip? Her chest tightened just thinking about the week ahead.
While Maeve waited in a short line to check in, the family ahead of her argued among themselves before stomping away from the reception desk, and swearing in Italian.
“Good evening, mademoiselle. You must be Maeve Doherty, oui?” Behind the oak desk, an impeccably-suited, tawny-haired man with a disarming smile welcomed her. He introduced himself as Pierre Martin, the head concierge, and didn’t seem at all flustered by the group before her.
“I am Maeve. Aye.”
“We’ve been expecting you. Welcome to our island of paradise.”
“We?”
“The entire hotel staff and Perfect Match. And, of course, your date for the week. I’ve met him and can assure you he’s a delightful fellow.”
Delightful fellow.
She refrained from gaping at the view of the infinity pool through the resort’s expansive rear windows and tried to return Pierre’s grin. “That’s grand.”
She had no photo of her match, no dating profile, her mind feverishly reminded her. What if Amy and Dawson Yates and their Perfect Match specialists had made a mistake, and she and this “delightful fellow” didn’t share any mutual interests? She imagined elaborate computers and complicated algorithms searching for … for what? Computers couldn’t be trusted on matters of the heart.
But this wasn’t a matter of the heart. This was a working holiday.
“You are tres belle, mademoiselle,” Pierre said, “and indeed more beautiful than the profile picture Mrs. Yates sent. I’m certain your match will be very pleased.” He struck his fingers to his lips with a whoosh, simulating a kiss. “In the meantime, your suite is on the second floor, room 201B, and Nigel will assist you.” He nodded to the bellhop leaning against the luggage cart, then handed her an envelope. “Voila! Your Perfect Match, Miss Doherty. And you’ll meet him at eight o’clock for dinner on the terrace.”
Voila?
“Thank you,” she said. As Pierre went on to describe the highlights of the resort, including the gift shop and a coffee bar, the outdoor pool and a five-star restaurant, she inspected the envelope. Everything vital to accomplish her stay, all the information about her match, was enclosed. This was her week to enjoy herself … to ease toward relaxation with a man she’d never met.
A few hours spent with him? Aye.
A week?
What would they possibly have in common?
On a half laugh, she debated tearing open the envelope and reading his profile aloud, but didn’t want to appear too anxious. Still, her hand shook as she stowed the envelope into her red tote.
Breathe, she chided herself. She’d agreed to the offer and to be spotlighted in promotional publications. She’d redeemed her coupon. She’d signed in good faith, and an Irishwoman stood by her word.
“Pierre, are there any more towels?” a deep male voice called from behind her.
Maeve pivoted and almost collided with a dripping wet man striding to the reception counter. He wore little more than a very tight, very revealing spandex bathing suit. Barefoot, he’d tossed a towel over his shoulders. Water puddled at his feet.
“Mr. Newell.” Pierre’s eyes widened. The implacable concierge dashed from behind his desk and pitched himself in front of Maeve. “Your match has arrived.”
“The Irish woman?” Mr. Newell strode closer. His sea-green eyes held a gleam; his coal-black hair was wet and slicked back. He was decidedly taller than Maeve’s five feet status, and she guessed he was over six feet.
“This isn’t the eighteen hundreds, Pierre,” Mr. Newell said. “I’m allowed to see my match before our official meeting. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. …” He paused.
“Yates, monsieur.”
“Right. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Yates won’t object. Besides, whoever you’re hiding isn’t my bride. I can take a peek.”
“You can take more than a peek, Mr. Newell.” Maeve shoved the rigid Pierre aside and held out her hand. “I’m Maeve Doherty.”
He seemed stunned for a moment, then delighted, then quickly concealed all reactions. “Very pleased to meet you, Maeve. I’m Edward Newell.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. His hand was wet. Drops of water clung to her palm.
He in his wet spandex suit, s
he in her wrinkled travel clothes, they stood in the marbled lobby of one of the most expensive resorts in the world and warily assessed each other.
At least, Maeve was wary.
She took a quick breath and an even quicker look at Edward. He appeared relaxed, despite his clothes, or lack of clothes. Look up, she scolded herself. Fix your gaze on his face, although her gaze insisted on gravitating downward to his broad, bare chest.
“Hello, Edward.” She congratulated herself on being able to speak.
“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” he said. “I recognized you from your photo, although you’re much more beautiful in person.” His devastating smile held her spellbound. She peered at their hands. They were still connected.
Edward Newell. The name sounded so posh.
His eyes mesmerized her, and she felt a pulse of pure attraction. He could have passed for a swimsuit model. She inhaled a whiff of fresh air and chlorine and affluence. He definitely smelled like a man who enjoyed the good things in life. And if that wasn’t enough, she had to concede he was exceedingly handsome.
She could hear Colleen whispering in her ear. “What if Mr. Right is waiting for you in Corsica?”
Determined to brazen out their first meet, she turned to the two men beside them. Pierre’s features were well-composed, his gaze was riveted on a point somewhere above her head. The bellhop Nigel stood suspended in midstep, holding onto the luggage cart, apprehension furrowing his brow. Baggage temporarily forgotten, he kept his gaze on the same spot as Pierre.
Evidently impervious to the goings-on around him, Edward kept hold of her hand and used his other one to drape his beach towel more securely around his shoulders. Fit and tanned, his physique was lean and well-toned. Well, except for those shoulders capping off a slim waist. Surely, he must bench-press every day.
“I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage, Mr. Newell,” Maeve said. “I’ve just arrived and haven’t viewed your profile yet.”
“There’s not much to view, although what I wrote was honest.” He studied her with candid interest, still holding onto her hand.
Maeve (Perfect Match Book 6) Page 2
