by Eliza Daly
“Alex can be my date.”
“Now that would give them something to report.”
He didn’t need to give the media anything to report. They fabricated their own stories about him. Alex had done the right thing, not announcing Cassidy’s role as his matchmaker. This would prevent her from slipping up and revealing anything she shouldn’t to the media.
“I know Alex emphasized the need for discretion,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about our conversation at my aunt’s funeral. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention me joking about divorcing the woman to anyone. Alex and the staff are taking this pretty seriously and might not find it funny.”
Precisely why Ryan planned to have another lawyer draft up the prenup.
She arched a skeptical brow. “So you don’t plan to divorce her?”
He shrugged. “Maybe you’re wearing off on me.”
Her gaze narrowed in doubt. “What’s in there?” She gestured to the oven, sniffing the air. “It smells wonderful.”
“Pepper steak.”
“Fiona make it?”
“I did.”
Her brow shot up. “For real?”
“Yeah, for real.”
She looked dumbfounded, and he took the food container from her hand. He opened the fridge and stuck it on the bottom shelf next to takeout containers from the Golden Dragon and Valentino’s. Plastic food containers from Fiona packed the middle shelf. And the top shelf, almost bare, was reserved for his own culinary creations. He closed the door, and her gaze darted from the fridge back to the stove.
“My cooking obviously surprises you.”
She nodded faintly.
Unbelievable. He’d actually rendered her speechless.
“I don’t do it often since I don’t have time. Which I don’t have right now either.” He glanced at his watch.
He placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her out of the kitchen toward the front door, but she made an unexpected detour halfway across the living room. The woman was like a pit bull. She didn’t take no for an answer. An annoying, yet strangely appealing, characteristic. Serena had always been so agreeable, making it appear they had so much in common, and that she hadn’t had a hidden agenda.
“Van Gogh’s Irises.” She studied the purple and green painting on the wall. “Interesting.”
“And no, Dr. Freud, I’m not on the verge of cutting off my ear or anyone else’s.”
“That’s reassuring. I just bought these.” She fingered her gold, dangly earrings.
He fought the urge to reach out and do the same, then let his hand wander down her neck, caressing her creamy, smooth skin. Her blouse didn’t boast a plunging neckline, leaving much to the imagination. Cassidy Baldwin was definitely unlike any woman he’d ever known.
“Is this an original?”
“A reproduction. The original went for just over fifty million at auction a few years back.”
She let out a low whistle. “Wow.”
“A little rich, even for my blood.”
“So, the man has his limits.”
“Yes, he does.” And he’d about reached them. He forced his gaze from her mouth as she nibbled once again on her lower lip.
She glanced around approvingly at the cream-colored couch and chairs while humming along to Frank Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” playing on the stereo. The large black-and-white framed photos on the wall captured her attention.
“Where’s this?” A faraway look filled her eyes. “It’s beautiful. The stone house is massive, but the flower boxes and all that ivy soften it, making it look so homey.”
That’s because it had been his home prior to his parents’ deaths.
“Ever been to France?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Never been anywhere. International anyway. My parents didn’t have time to travel when I was growing up.” She glanced over at a photo of Paris. “I’ve seen April in Paris a gazillion times. What a romantic city.”
Supposedly. He’d never strolled the Seine hand-in-hand with a lover or kissed one at the top of the Eiffel Tower. He went to Paris on business. Something a hopeless romantic like Cassidy would consider a wasted trip.
Drawn back to the photo of his home, she tilted her head to the side. “You ever look at a photo of a faraway place and wonder what it’s like? What history it holds? Like all the happy and sad things the home has seen over the years. Maybe some couple raised a family there, and now the kids are gone and she spends her days tending the flowers in the window boxes while he works in the vineyard.” She let out a contented sigh, appearing caught up in a dream world. A place she undoubtedly visited often.
Yet she’d fallen in love with his childhood home from merely a photo. “I lived there until I came to stay with my aunt. Go back a couple times a year.”
Her gaze softened. “How old were you when you moved here?”
“Eight.”
She turned toward him, and he suddenly realized just how close they were. He stared into her eyes, uncertain what to say, even though she was so damn easy to talk to. Her scent, a refreshing mix of mint and citrus, did little to cool the blood racing through his veins. By the looks of her flushed cheeks, he seemed to be having the same effect on her.
A car alarm blared down on the street, and their gazes darted to the open patio door.
She cleared her throat, her gaze remaining fixed on the patio. “You must have a great view.” As if consumed by an overwhelming curiosity, or need to distance herself from him, she bolted over to the patio. She slid open the screen door and stepped out onto the empty cement slab. She turned from the railing, peering over at him. “What a great view of the art museum. You’re like practically on top of it.”
His palms broke out in a sweat.
The view hadn’t been the condo’s biggest selling point. The fact that it towered thirty-two floors over the city and the media and paparazzi would have to scale the building or parachute by to spy on him had been its main attraction.
She tilted her head toward the sky, inhaling a deep breath. “It’s a gorgeous night. You should be enjoying it.”
He enjoyed it from inside the doors, as always.
She leaned over the railing for the view below, and her sunglasses slipped off the top of her head. She sprang up on her tiptoes, lunging for them as they fell.
Heart racing, he bolted onto the terrace, pulling her away from the railing and into his arms. His hold on her tightened as he stood paralyzed by visions of her falling to her death. Similar to the nightmares he’d had for years of his parents’ car plunging over the cliff in Monte Carlo where they’d been killed.
His arms relaxed slightly, yet Cassidy remained molded against his body, every curve fitting perfectly. She gazed up at him, the panic in her eyes undoubtedly mirroring his own. Reluctantly, he slowly released her and stepped back.
“I don’t know how sturdy that railing is,” he said. “It’s been loose for a while, been meaning to have it looked at.”
What a crock of shit. This was the first time he’d stepped foot on the balcony. He didn’t think anything would ever get him out here.
Cassidy seemed able to push him to his limits.
In every respect.
Chapter Nine
Cassidy sat parked in the funeral home’s driveway, massaging her arms, listening to Diana Krall’s “The Look of Love.” The memory of Ryan’s touch caused a warm, soothing sensation to consume her entire body. Being wrapped in his arms had made her feel safe. Although what she’d felt was probably a sense of “security,” since his money would help save her reputation and reestablish her career. After seeing the picture of Ryan’s family villa in France, she needed to change his wedding from an Italian-themed Christmas to a French one. Villa Luna could easily transport guests to the south of France and maybe transport Ryan back to a happier time of his life.
She stepped from her Beamer and activated the alarm. The alarm’s high-pitched beep was echoed
by the soft, sorrowful coo of a mourning dove. As usual, the bird occupied the feeder along the side of the house. Seemed the poor thing had developed an eating disorder after its mate vanished a week ago, and she presumed it dead. Playing matchmaker for the bird would probably be easier than finding Ryan a mate.
Cassidy trudged upstairs and into the kitchen to make some Yerba Mate tea—an energy booster. A glass of cabernet would hit the spot, but she’d be zonked out in a heartbeat. Having promised Alex the preliminary application by noon tomorrow, she’d be pulling an all-nighter. Not to mention, she wanted to go online and search out information on this Serena woman.
The sound of Lucy’s Care Bear slippers slapping against the hallway’s hardwood floor heralded her arrival into the kitchen. A spandex headband prevented her hair from getting stuck in the goopy mask on her face.
“So, how’d it go at Ryan’s condo?” She plopped down on a chair at the green Formica table. “Did you see his bedroom?”
Not unless she was telepathic and her visions of his satin sheets against her skin were correct . . .
“Well?” Lucy prodded.
“I saw inside his fridge. He had a ton of carryout containers from Valentino’s, the Golden Dragon—”
“The Golden Dragon?” Lucy arched an intrigued brow. “Your favorite restaurant.”
“No surprise. It’s a great restaurant.”
Having no social life made her an expert on takeout. She hadn’t realized how pathetic that was until she’d seen all the containers packed in Ryan’s fridge.
“It’s a dive. You’d think he’d go to Monsieur Yang’s. I bet he eats Szechwan, a definite sign he’s adventurous.”
“He was making a steak. So doesn’t that mean he’s a traditional kind of guy?”
“Was he cooking it himself or reheating one from a restaurant?”
“Cooking it himself.”
“Hmm . . . So, not only is he traditional and adventurous, he’s domesticated.”
Domesticated wasn’t a word Cassidy would use to describe Ryan. She couldn’t picture him sitting around the dinner table with the wife and kids, chatting about Little League and soccer games. The woman would be lucky if he was home in time to tuck in the kids, not to mention her. Cassidy’s nanny had tucked her in at night.
“While you were out playing Miss Marple, I finished the preliminary application.” Lucy waved the papers in her hand.
“Finished it?”
“Pending your approval, of course. Focusing on the top twenty criteria we talked about should make weeding out applications a breeze. I was thinking we narrow the initial round down to a few hundred women, who will then complete a more extensive questionnaire, and then fifty submit a ten-minute video. We can narrow those down to ten and conduct personal interviews.” Lucy placed the application on the table in front of her.
“Sounds great.”
“I got a bunch of ideas sifting through online applications for reality TV shows.”
“This isn’t going to be a reality show; it’s going to be a game show.”
She filled Lucy in on The Dating Game.
Her friend’s nose crinkled in disgust. “How unromantic is that?”
Cassidy shrugged.
The microwave beeped. Cassidy retrieved her mug and added a silver ball filled with tea leaves. She sat at the table, reviewing the first page of the application. “We need to narrow the window on things, like age.”
“She should be between twenty-eight and thirty-four. Being cultured and comfortable with social obligations comes with age. At twenty-eight, she’s been out of college awhile and has hopefully found herself. And she shouldn’t be older than him, because he’d probably be threatened by an older woman.” Lucy’s mask now resembled a dried-up mud puddle. Talking through clenched teeth, she sounded like her jaw was wired shut.
Sipping her tea, Cassidy skimmed the second page. “Let’s ask if she’s ever filed bankruptcy. She needs to be financially responsible.” Unlike Cassidy. He’d have a field day with her balance sheet. “She has to be antidivorce so she won’t even consider marrying Ryan if she has to agree up front to a divorce. She needs to be from a tight-knit, stable family.”
“One divorce is fine. It’s not the poor woman’s fault if she was jilted by a jerk. Statistically, having two or more divorces should weed out a large percentage of the women.”
True. Cassidy couldn’t be blamed for her own failed engagement, could she? Should she have seen it coming?
Lucy smacked the backside of the application, and Cassidy glanced up. “Stop thinking about Nick.”
“I wasn’t.” Cassidy popped up from her chair. “I was thinking about how I could really go for some wine now that I don’t have to stay up all night working on this form. I’ll finish reading it in bed, but I’m sure it’s fine.”
“You know alcohol actually keeps you from sleeping.”
“Not if I drink enough of it.”
• • •
Cassidy tossed her briefcase on the purple saucer chair in the corner of her bedroom. Vintage travel posters of the Orient Express, Paris, Greece, and other exotic destinations filled the deep purple walls. The only furnishings she hadn’t put in storage. She removed a pump and flung it at the white fun fur rug by her bed. It missed and slid across the hardwood floor, disappearing under the bed. She couldn’t hit the side of a house with a basketball.
She crouched down and lifted the purple chenille bedspread. The shoe had landed next to the pink hatbox. She glared at the box securely sealed with enough packing tape to move a three-bedroom house. Why hadn’t she thrown it away?
Because the contents represented the dreams of her delusional youth.
Thinking about that stinking hatbox would keep her up all night. She grabbed the box, marched it downstairs, and stashed it away in a casket—an empty casket—in the arrangement room.
That should kill the memories it contained.
Chapter Ten
Valentino’s restaurant and martini lounge oozed nostalgia with its Art Deco décor. Except in the 1920s, patrons would have dined in a haze of cigarette smoke and prohibition would have forbidden the liquor bottles displayed on the glass shelves behind the chrome bar.
Ryan glanced around, making sure there weren’t any clients to interrupt his quiet lunch. Being a broker certainly wouldn’t have been his first career choice, had he been given a choice. Not that anyone had forced him to go into finance. But if he hadn’t, his aunt would have gone bankrupt years ago and she and the staff would have been out on the street, or his roommates.
He spied Alex and Cassidy sitting at a cozy corner table. What the hell?
He marched across the restaurant toward the pair. Cassidy let out a giggle. Ryan’s gaze narrowed on the two of them. She was Alex’s type—down-to-earth, funny, and beautiful. Was Alex Cassidy’s type?
Alex saw him coming, and his smile vanished. He discreetly nodded toward Ryan, and Cassidy’s gaze darted to him. Her emerald tweed suit matched her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a loose twist. She had gorgeous hair—why didn’t she ever wear it down? Just one more mystery about the woman. Ryan forced a smile as he approached. Before he could ask what the hell was going on, Alex spoke up.
“Oh, ah, hey, Ryan. We were just going over some . . . legal stuff.”
“My confidentiality agreement,” she said.
“Yeah, her agreement.”
Besides Alex being a shitty liar, where was this agreement?
“I thought you had a lunch in Chicago?” Alex said.
“It got moved to next week.”
They all stared at each other in awkward silence.
“Would you like to join us?” Alex asked.
Cassidy shot Alex a questioning glance. “I’m sure he’d be bored with us talking legal stuff.”
She wanted rid of him awfully bad. Screw a quiet lunch. He wanted to know what the hell was going on.
“I’d love to join you.” Ryan pulled out a chair. “Pretend like I�
�m not here. Keep talking about whatever you were talking about.”
Cassidy and Alex exchanged nervous glances.
“We can discuss it later,” she said.
“Actually that’d be great,” Alex said. “The service has been awful.” He glanced at his watch. “And I have an appointment in a half hour.” He tossed his napkin on the table and got up. “I’ll call you to arrange a meeting.”
“Sounds great.”
Alex said good-bye and vanished.
Cassidy tapped a nail against her water glass. “I gave Alex the initial application for the website. You want to see it?” She reached for her briefcase.
“No thanks, I’ll pass.”
“Aren’t you even the least bit curious?”
“You weren’t talking to Alex about your agreement, were you?” His jaw tightened. “I don’t want you seeing Alex.” Where had that come from?
Her gaze narrowed. “You don’t?”
“It, ah, could be a conflict to your job. You can see him after you’re done.”
She laughed. “I’m not seeing Alex.”
He raised a skeptical brow.
She let out a defeated sigh. “I was interviewing him about you, since you won’t talk to me.”
Rather than being annoyed at her nosing around, he was relieved that was her purpose for meeting with Alex. That unnerved the hell out of him.
“I’m talking to you right now,” he said.
“You know what I mean.”
“Fine, you’ve got me for an hour. What do you want to know?”
“Why’d your family live in France rather than here?”
He hesitated, then said, “My father was French.”
“Mitchell doesn’t sound French.”
“My parents changed their last name, hoping it would help them lead a halfway normal life.”
