by Eliza Daly
She waved at him. “Buenos dias.”
He gazed up at her from beneath the brim of his Panama hat and returned her greeting, smiling shyly, then promptly went back to work. The silent type.
She opened the heavy wooden door and slipped inside, greeted by the aroma of fresh baked goods and the tinny sound of a jazz tune reminiscent of the Roaring Twenties.
Large family portraits in gilded frames filled the raspberry-colored walls. Her gaze fixed on the portrait of Cornwell Brewery’s founding father, Herman Cornwell. The man looked like he’d already gone to the big brewery in the sky at the time he’d posed for the portrait. She’d seen more lively looking men laid out at the funeral home.
Next was a portrait of two girls bearing a strong resemblance to each other. Quite perky looking compared to ole Herman. Both had pink rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and dark, silky hair. The older of the two appeared to be in her early teens, the younger maybe eight. The older girl’s Marilyn Monroe iconic hairstyle dated the portrait circa the 1950s.
“That’s Aggie and Emma, Ryan’s mama.” The baby-doll voice broke Cassidy’s trance, and she whirled around. Charlotte, the housekeeper. She swept a feather duster over the portrait, then plunged the handle down the front of her green floral chiffon dress, nestling it between her bountiful breasts. The tips of the feathers flirted with her nose, and she let out a dainty sneeze. She slid the handle down farther. “Fiona told us you’re planning our baby’s wedding.”
“I’m working on it,” Cassidy assured her.
“Swell.” Charlotte slipped an arm through Cassidy’s, and her fresh scent washed over Cassidy like an April rain shower. Her black patent leather Mary Janes clicked against the hardwood floor as she whisked Cassidy into the next room, and onto what could have been the set of Antiques Roadshow.
Furnishings ran the gamut from a grand piano to an ornate black lacquer cabinet with inlaid mother-of-pearl. An antique Victrola played the vintage jazz music. Wooden masks hung over the fireplace, their intimidating almond-slit eyes watching over Aggie’s resting place—the cat toy on the mantle—as did the black cat with the missing tail dozing next to it.
A gray cat lay sprawled like a fur rug over a vintage silver vacuum cleaner tank. The orange tabby with a chunk out of one ear lounged in an open windowsill, basking in the sunlight, unfazed by Cassidy’s arrival, or the sheer white curtain billowing in the gentle breeze, brushing against its damp fur. A wet cat. Not something you saw every day. The cats were just three of the many felines posing with Aggie in the portraits lining the bright yellow walls.
“I so want him to find a nice domesticated woman,” Charlotte said. “Someone who’ll take care of him. Who’ll cook—”
“I cook for Ryan,” Fiona barked, clomping in on a pair of gold high-heeled sandals, carrying a tray. An envelope sat on the tray—undoubtedly the pot o’ gold—along with a silver coffeepot, two china cups, a flask, and a bottle of Cornwell beer. A black scarf covered Fiona’s head, contrasting with her bright red hair, lime-green shirt, and orange capris. “Nobody cooks for him better than me.”
Spoken like a true mother.
Fiona set the tray on the cocktail table, then walked the beer over to Aggie’s urn on the fireplace mantel. Charlotte gestured for Cassidy to sit on the floral brocade couch covered with plastic. Rather than being stiff and uninviting, the plastic molded snuggly to the couch, reflecting frequent use. What was with all the plastic? Was the furniture priceless, irreplaceable antiques?
Curiosity must have reflected on her face because Charlotte leaned in and whispered, “The plastic is because of Fiona’s problem.”
“Here’s to being single, drinking doubles, and seeing triple.” Fiona took a swig of beer, then set the bottle on the mantle next to Aggie’s urn.
What was Fiona’s problem? She became inebriated and spilled? Unlikely. The woman didn’t appear to have a tolerance for much except whiskey.
Cassidy sat on the couch, the plastic crinkling beneath her. Luckily, it wasn’t too warm out or she’d be peeling her bare legs off it.
Fiona sat next to her.
The black cat jumped down from the mantle and up onto Cassidy’s lap. Her parents had insisted that pets were too demanding and would get fur all over their expensive furnishings and designer clothes. She stroked the cat’s slightly dampened fur, and its motor kicked in.
“Barley’s taken a liking to you, he has,” Fiona said.
“And Barley doesn’t like strangers. Not like Hops.” Charlotte glanced over at the orange tabby in the window, whose ears twitched at the sound of its name but eyes remained closed. “Hops wuves everyone.”
Fiona poured coffee and handed Cassidy a cup. Over the past six months, Cassidy had acquired a taste for Lucy’s tea—some of it, anyway—but she would never acquire a taste for coffee. But if Ryan could choke down pigeon pie to save Fiona’s feelings, she could surely tolerate a couple swallows of coffee. She took a sip, and the liquid left a blazing path from the tip of her tongue straight down to her stomach. Her eyes watered and a few coughs sputtered up her throat, carrying ashes of her insides no doubt. The cup contained straight whiskey with a splash of coffee to add aroma and coloring.
“But you don’t cook for Ryan every night,” Charlotte told Fiona, picking up the conversation where they’d left off. She wriggled her voluptuous hips in between Fiona and Cassidy, sitting down. “He needs a wife who can cook, so he’s not eating out all the time.”
“Send food home with him, I do.” Fiona’s stern look softened slightly. “Suppose I could teach her to cook.”
“She needs to like to clean. Ryan likes things tidy,” Charlotte said. “And she can only use Bounce fabric softener. He’s allergic to other brands. And she can’t clean with any products that are animal-tested or—”
“We’re trying to find Ryan a wife, not a maid,” Fiona barked.
“Only use Bounce,” Cassidy muttered, pulling her daisy pad from her briefcase.
“There’s nothing wrong with her being a housekeeper.” Charlotte pursed her lips to compensate for the lack of force in her voice.
“As long as she’s Irish,” Fiona said, pointing a definitive finger in the air. “And Catholic. Ryan needs a good Catholic woman after all them floozies he’s dated.”
A nun couldn’t purify Ryan at this point in his life.
Hector’s head popped up outside the open window, from the bed of tulips he was planting. “Why not a beautiful Mexican woman? Like my cousin Maria in Guadalajara.”
“We’re trying to find Ryan a wife, not get your cousin a green card.”
Was Cassidy the only one who questioned Hector’s Hispanic ethnicity? Unlikely he actually had a cousin in Mexico.
Charlie materialized by Hector’s side. “I have a niece in San Diego. She doesn’t need a green card.”
This was going to be a nightmare.
“She should wear fishnet stockings,” Charlie said.
Hector nodded enthusiastically. “Si. Fishnet stockings.”
“Men—always thinking with their willies, they are,” Fiona said. “Ryan has seen plenty of fishnet stockings. Doesn’t need to see no more.”
“She has to like daisies,” Hector said. “Ryan’s favorite flower.”
Cassidy glanced down at the scrawling on her daisy pad. “How about this: Everyone take some time to consider the qualities you think Ryan’s fiancée should possess. Write them down, and I’ll incorporate them into the questionnaire the women have to complete. But keep in mind what’s best for Ryan.” She glanced over at Hector. “Do you truly believe your cousin would be the best choice for him?”
He shrugged grudgingly. “She’s very beautiful.”
“Beauty won’t make the pot boil,” Fiona said. “She’s got to be a good cook.”
“We shouldn’t base his fiancée’s requirements on looks. Ryan has done that his entire life. Like with Serena.” Baiting them with Serena’s name was a tad underhanded. Yet, knowing what type of woman co
nvinced Ryan to give up his playboy ways, even if just temporarily, was critical.
“Aye, the tramp,” Fiona said.
“Gold digger,” Charlotte spat.
Hector went on a tangent in Spanish.
Charlie compared the woman to some exotic car that looked great on the outside but was crap under the hood.
The front door closed, and Ryan strode into the room. Everyone’s mouths snapped shut. Charlie and Hector promptly ducked down outside the window. Charlotte popped up from the couch, plucking the feather duster from her bosom, and began dusting the cat on Cassidy’s lap. Fiona took a swig of coffee, discreetly stuffing the packet of photos in Cassidy’s briefcase.
Ryan raised a suspicious brow. “What’s going on here?”
Barley hopped off Cassidy’s lap to trot over and rub against Ryan’s pants leg. He reached down and petted the cat.
“Cassidy wanted me scones recipe. What are you doing here? Needn’t worry ’bout me climbing no more trees. Just did me nails.” She fluttered her blood-red nails in front of her.
“I need to talk with you guys. All of you,” he called out to the window. Hector and Charlie popped back up. He eyed Cassidy with suspicion. “Except for you.”
“Are you following me?” She stood.
“No, but I guess I should hire someone to.”
“What, ya don’t believe she wants me recipe?” Fiona sounded hurt, over-dramatizing as usual. “A bloody brilliant recipe, it is.”
Ryan’s look relaxed slightly, but he kept a watchful eye on Cassidy.
“I’ll fetch the recipe.” Fiona winked discreetly, exiting the room.
Charlotte sang “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby,” dancing across the room, dusting the cat on the vacuum cleaner on her way out.
Cassidy’s gaze followed her until she disappeared down the hallway. “This must have been an interesting place to grow up. Not exactly your typical childhood.”
Ryan smiled, a reminiscent look filling his eyes. “Better than having two parents who didn’t care about me, I guess.”
Whoa. Seemed Ryan didn’t have compassion for anyone outside of the staff. Alex’s research on her must have been quite extensive. Hand on hip, she stepped forward, putting mere inches between them. Inhaling his musky scent, she took a step back.
“Yeah, well, I turned out just fine, thank you. I had two grandparents who loved me dearly. And I didn’t need material things to make me happy. I don’t have to rely on family money. If I wanted my parents’ help, I’d have let them defend me against—” She snapped her mouth shut.
Ryan looked bewildered, and slightly freaked out, by her outburst. His blue eyes softened. “I’m sorry, I was merely making a general observation. I wasn’t referring to you personally. I had no idea . . . ”
She could feel her cheeks turn as pink as her skirt. Maybe she’d been a tad overly sensitive.
Her phone sang out. Perfect timing. She stepped away, welcoming the interruption. It was Jayne Barrington.
“I’m wondering if you’d be available to plan my May wedding?” Jayne bubbled with enthusiasm. Like the last time Cassidy planned her wedding, three years ago. Another couple she’d pegged for divorce. “The third Saturday of the month.”
“Ah, yes, I’m available. But I can’t start for a few weeks.” Until she publicly announced her planning company and had organized Ryan’s wedding.
“Perfect. I’m traveling for work until the end of the month. We’ll touch base when I’m back in town. Ciao!” She hung up.
Cassidy had just landed her new company’s second client.
Rather than punching a celebratory fist in the air, an icky feeling tossed her stomach.
What was that about? This wasn’t her first repeat client. She’d known their marriage wasn’t going to last. She made it a rule to never get emotionally involved in a couple’s wedding or divorce. What had happened to business was business?
• • •
“Is everything okay?” Ryan asked.
She tossed the phone into her purse. “Fine. I just planned this woman’s wedding three years ago. Now, she’s calling to hire me again.”
“At least it’s good for business.”
Her brow crinkled and she looked torn over how to respond. “Whatever happened to ’til death do us part?”
He couldn’t help but smile.
Her gaze narrowed. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. It’s just you sound like my aunt Aggie.”
Her expression relaxed. “Oh.”
“She believed love should conquer all.”
His aunt never married, yet she’d never given up on finding true love. He’d admired her determination, even if he hadn’t believed in her quest. He couldn’t imagine if Aggie had given up on her hopes and dreams, her pursuit of love. It was what had made her eccentric and unique. She’d been very passionate about the things she believed in, same as Cassidy. Although Cassidy was passionate about finding him a wife at the moment, he still envied the quality in her. He couldn’t remember the last time he was truly passionate about anything. Well, he could, actually. It was fifteen years ago. Something he didn’t care to think about.
“If my parents hadn’t died, they’d have grown old together,” he said.
She looked stunned by his comment, as did he no doubt.
“I believe mourning doves, and on a rare occasion some people, are meant to be together for life.”
Her gaze narrowed in disbelief. “Are you messing with me?”
He shook his head. “My parents were a perfect match. They did everything together. Even mundane things like grocery shopping or doing dishes. Every night after dinner they’d help me practice baseball.” He smiled at the memory of his mom ducking fly balls. “My mom could catch only grounders, but she tried. Most importantly, they never took each other for granted . . . ”
Cassidy tilted her head to the side, studying him, processing everything he’d just disclosed. Great. Her gaze fixed on his, she took a step toward him. His first instinct was to step back, preventing her from getting any closer, yet instead, he peered down at her calves. His gaze traveled up her bare, slender legs, stopping midthigh, at the bottom of her skirt. She had great legs . . .
She cleared her throat, and he glanced up, stifling a guilty look.
“So why don’t you believe true love can happen to you? Why not give it a chance?” Her voice was filled with hope.
Great. Trying to make her feel better had turned around and bitten him in the ass.
“Falling in love isn’t hereditary. What my parents had was extremely rare.” He swallowed hard. “I have to go talk to the staff about the commercial airing day after tomorrow.” He walked back into the living room, refusing to look at the disappointed expression undoubtedly on her face.
Chapter Eight
Skyview Towers rose up from the shoreline of Lake Michigan. The sleek steel and glass structure snubbed the other high-rises behind it, which had boasted the same breathtaking views prior to the building’s appearance three years ago. Snobbery came with a hefty price tag. Condos started at a cool half million. Way over Cassidy’s budget, but chump change for Ryan.
It was almost 7 p.m. Since Ryan wasn’t at his office or the mansion, and didn’t seem to have a life outside of those places, there was a good chance he was home. Cassidy had a takeout order of fettuccini from Antonio’s—a trendy Italian restaurant. Placing the container in his fridge would enable her to sneak a peek at his eating habits, as Lucy suggested. Ryan admitting his parents were truly in love gave her a glimmer of hope that she could convince him he wanted a similar relationship.
She needed to strike while the iron was hot.
She loitered outside the building, admiring a bed of purple petunias, searching unsuccessfully for a dead flower to pluck. A fortyish blond man in a gray suit walked up and she befriended him, chatting about their Indian summer, something every Wisconsinite was more than happy to discuss. Accompanying him inside, she waltzed right past
the older gentleman in a navy suit seated at the lobby desk, engrossed in an Architectural Digest. He smiled at them and went back to his magazine.
Not exactly a secured building.
The man got off on the twentieth floor and she continued up to the thirty-second. She located unit 32B, reached for the doorbell, but snapped back her hand. She’d practiced her spiel the entire way over, and suddenly her mind was a complete blank. Except for visions of what she might find on the other side of the door.
A mix of anticipation and panic fluttered in her stomach. Ryan’s bedroom could reveal plenty about him regardless of Lucy’s suggestion to find out how he slept. Would it be furnished with a modern or traditional bedroom set? Would the sheets be satin? Would they be black, or maybe a deep burgundy, the shade of a smooth cabernet . . .
She gave herself a mental fanning and rang the doorbell before she could bolt.
• • •
“Am I interrupting anything?” Cassidy nibbled at the traces of pink lipstick on her lower lip. God, she had a great mouth. Her full lips were rarely hidden behind lipstick since she constantly removed it with her teeth. Mysteriously, it was never on her teeth.
“Yeah, actually I’m quite busy.” Ryan pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the dining table covered with client portfolios.
What was Cassidy doing here? The only people he’d ever allowed in his condo were Alex, his aunt and her staff, the cleaning lady, and . . . Serena. There was something unsettling about having Cassidy in his home. Not that he had anything to hide. Not of a material nature anyway. But no telling what far-fetched conclusions this woman would conjure up from her visit.
She slipped past him and into the condo, holding up a white container with red lettering reading Antonio’s. “I brought you dinner. Fiona seemed awfully concerned that you don’t eat right. Wouldn’t want you getting sick before we find you a fiancée. Is the kitchen through here?” she asked, already en route across the living room.
He reluctantly closed the door and followed her.
She slowly scanned her surroundings, as if taking a mental picture. Her gaze landed on the fridge, where a magnet secured the tickets for the Children’s Medical Center’s charity event. “Guess you’ll be in town for that event now. You know you can’t take a date. The media would misconstrue your relationship even if it were innocent. Besides, Veronica made it pretty clear she doesn’t care to see you again. Guess you’re going to have to go stag.”
