by Eliza Daly
“Sounds like they were very private people.” She tilted her head to the side, studying him. “Like you.”
Wedding planner, his ass. She probably worked for the Washington Post. The second he let down his guard, she swooped right in. She spoke her mind, which few people did with him, giving him a false sense of trust.
“What about kids?”
“What about them?”
“Do you want them? That’s something I should know to help me in selecting a woman.”
“I don’t see myself as a father.”
Sure, he could give a kid virtually anything, except a normal family life.
“People definitely shouldn’t have kids if they don’t want them.” Her look said she was speaking from experience. “Do you have any memories of Christmas in France?”
He smiled. “Le Réveillon. After midnight mass on Christmas Eve, we’d have a virtual feast at our house with my father’s sister and her family. We’d have oysters, escargot, foie gras, turkey with chestnuts—”
“Ryan,” a voice called out behind him.
He turned to find Roxanne Sheridan strutting toward him, her stilettos clicking against the marble floor. She’d cut her long, dark hair into a bobbed style, which currently bounced against her shoulders in rhythm with her step. All eyes were on her, or rather her orange spandex dress, hugging her new breasts with the appreciation of a lover. Seemed she’d changed more than her haircut since he’d last seen her.
He stood, and she greeted him with a fleeting kiss to each cheek, pressing her latest asset against him in the process. She looped an arm through his. “I haven’t seen you in forever. Where have you been hiding? I missed you at Katy Crawford’s bash. It was fab. Everyone was there . . . ” She rattled off an extensive guest list and gushed about how great Katy’s parties were.
They were great if you cared to listen to people drone on about their recent extended stay at some lavish spa—a front for a rehab clinic—or their affiliations with prominent political figures they paid to keep in their pockets. Her parties were about as much fun as a weeklong finance seminar.
Cassidy took in the display with keen interest, undoubtedly making mental notes to interrogate him with later.
“Sounds like a hell of a party,” he said. He turned to introduce her to Cassidy, but Roxanne cut him off.
“We simply must get together sometime. Call me.” Armed with a business card, she slipped a hand beneath his suit coat and slid it deep into his pants pocket. It was the closest the woman would ever come to getting inside his pants. As fast as she’d barged in, she flitted off.
Cassidy arched a curious brow. “I’ll undoubtedly be getting an application from her.”
“She’s married. That disqualifies her.”
“As a potential fiancée or other things also?”
“I don’t date married women. Besides, she’s not my type.”
“She certainly looked your type.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
Why did he give a rat’s ass what Cassidy thought about the type of women he dated? In two days, she’d given him a conscience? He had his reasons for dating the women he did, and she wouldn’t understand even if he explained. Which he didn’t plan to do.
The less Cassidy Baldwin knew about him, the better.
Chapter Eleven
Cassidy propped the tall, thin boxes containing the framed photos of Aggie against Melanie’s desk upon returning from her second trip to the parking garage. “Figured this afternoon would be a good time to work on Ryan’s office since he’s at an offsite meeting.”
Melanie’s pug nose wrinkled. “Can’t believe he’s redecorating his office. He hasn’t changed a thing since I started four years ago. Guess maybe his aunt’s death really shook him up. Time for a change.”
The phone rang and Melanie answered it. Cassidy slipped inside Ryan’s office, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Although the pillows wouldn’t be visible, leave it to Lucy to go all out and select satin ones with a heart button in the center. Cassidy brushed a hand over a pillow, getting lost in its smooth and satiny feel. Besides all its other alluring qualities, satin made one feel extremely sexy. Ryan wouldn’t have satin sheets. Cotton would be more practical . . .
Stay focused. Focused on how many women had been on his sheets. She promptly shoved the visions of Ryan’s linens aside and exchanged the pillows inside the leather cases for the satin ones. She removed the pink thong from her briefcase just as Melanie walked in. She promptly hid it behind her back.
“What’s that?” Melanie asked.
“Ah, nothing.”
“It looked like a pair of pink panties.”
“I, er, found this under a cushion.” Cassidy reluctantly produced the thong.
Ryan doing the dirty deed in his office certainly wasn’t unlikely.
“How’d it get there?”
Was the woman really that naïve?
“I would guess it belongs to a girlfriend.”
Melanie laughed off the idea as if ludicrous. “He wouldn’t have time for a girlfriend. He works fourteen-hour days. He might date once in a while, but it’s always business related, taking a woman to a work function or some benefit. Believe me, I know his schedule better than my own.”
“Was Veronica business related?”
Melanie rolled her eyes. “That woman was definitely business related. She’s the daughter of his biggest client. He took her to a benefit last month and hasn’t been able to shake her since. He hasn’t had a girlfriend since he and Serena broke up two years ago.” She winced. “I shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“Serena was something else, wasn’t she?” Cassidy said as if she knew all about her. The only thing she knew from a photo she’d found online was that she was dark haired, petite, and a conservative dresser.
Melanie’s gaze narrowed behind her black, rectangular glasses. “She wasn’t at all like the women he usually dates. Sure, she was pretty, but she seemed really smart. A writer would have to be, wouldn’t she?”
What exactly did she write? Ryan would never have been involved with a journalist. Or anyone as Bohemian as a poet.
“They seemed so perfect for each other. Wish he’d find someone. He’s a real catch.”
So Melanie thought Serena was perfect for Ryan when others swore she was the anti-Christ. Actually, with her black suit, polished look, drive, probable financial stability, and no ring, Melanie might be a viable candidate for Ryan.
“You two seem to have a lot in common. Have you ever thought about dating Ryan?”
Melanie snapped back, as if floored by the idea. “Never. He’s my boss. Besides, I’m married.”
Cassidy glanced down at her bare ring finger.
“I’m having the setting checked. Even if I were single, he’s not my type. He’s going to work himself into an early grave if he doesn’t slow down. I don’t want to be widowed at a young age.”
Finally, someone who didn’t look forward to being widowed.
“You must put in a lot of hours also.”
“I’m out by six every night. Ryan won’t let me stay late even if he has clients coming in. Just the type of guy he is.”
This woman would pop a cyanide capsule before she’d knowingly betray Ryan. She’d be upset if she knew she just had. Riddled with guilt, and needing insight from the person who spent the most time with Ryan, Cassidy held up the thong. “I didn’t find this under the couch. I was putting it there.”
Melanie’s expression said eeewwww.
“It’s not mine. It’s new and I’m putting it here for his benefit.” Cassidy explained the whole concept of feng shui-ing love into Ryan’s life. “I know it sounds bizarre, but—”
“Not at all. Ryan needs all the help he can get, or he’s going to grow old alone. But you’re his decorator. Why do you care about his love life?”
Good question. She hadn’t prepared an explanation for that one. Cassidy fessed up about her role as matchma
ker, leaving out the part about Ryan marrying to receive his inheritance. She didn’t want to taint Melanie’s delusional image of her boss. Besides, the point would be moot since she planned on finding his soul mate.
“Let me know if you need any help. Nobody would like to see Ryan happy more than me.” Melanie took the thong from Cassidy’s hand and stuffed it under the cushion. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
Hopefully, it was also safe with Lucy and Kenny.
• • •
Charlie stood perched on a plastic-covered ottoman in the living room, wearing an orange chiffon dress and his black chauffeur’s cap. Charlotte was kneeling on the floor, pinning up the dress; he was apparently serving as her model. The two were relatively the same size except Charlie wasn’t as well endowed. And outside of his knobby little knees, the dress actually was sort of flattering on him.
Hector stood barefoot, arranging a bouquet of plastic tulips in a yellow blown-glass vase on top of the fireplace mantle between Aggie’s resting spot and Barley. Once again, the gray cat laid sprawled over the vacuum cleaner, and Hops lounged in the open windowsill, soaking up the sun.
“She must like to travel.” Fiona glanced at her extensive list while leaning over to pour Cassidy some coffee. “Ryan’s been everywhere. Took them photos he had on his wall at work. A brilliant photographer.”
Ryan had a creative outlet? Go figure. Had he also taken the photos of his home in France? She wanted to ask Fiona if she served any of the traditional French dishes Ryan used to eat at his Christmas Eve meal while living in France. She planned to serve the ones he’d mentioned at his wedding. The turkey with chestnuts sounded delicious. But what if Fiona wanted to prepare the dishes?
Charlotte removed a pin from her mouth. “She’s gotta have a good sense of humor.” She giggled. “He needs to laugh more.”
Charlie smoothed a hand over his dress. “They have to have sexual chemistry.”
Hector glanced up from his tulips. “Si.”
“Aye, sexual chemistry. We want plenty of wee ones running around here.”
“Does Ryan want kids?” Cassidy asked. She already knew the answer, but the staff didn’t seem to and she didn’t have the heart to tell them.
“’Course he be wanting kids.”
“He’s great with kids,” Charlie said.
When was he ever around kids? Besides not having the time, she couldn’t imagine him having the tolerance. Smudge prints on his windows would send him over the edge.
“He donates toys every Christmas to the Children’s Medical Center and arranges for actors dressed as superheroes to visit there every month.”
Hmm . . .
“Can’t believe he’s all grown up.” Charlotte sniffled, plucking a tissue from her bra and daintily dabbing her eyes. The faint scent of rain became stronger. Upon closer inspection, Cassidy realized it wasn’t a tissue Charlotte held, but rather a dryer sheet. No wonder she always smelled like an April shower.
Fiona popped up from the couch. “Got a brilliant idea, I do. Ryan’s old bedroom will tell ya plenty about him as a lad. Haven’t changed a thing since he left.”
Charlie and Hector disapproved of snooping in Ryan’s bedroom, but Fiona and Charlotte had no qualms about it. They led Cassidy up the sweeping staircase that was straight out of Gone with the Wind. Her stomach fluttered, like Scarlett’s probably had when Rhett literally swept her off her feet and carried her up the stairs to their bedroom. Cassidy’s fluttering was anticipation over what she’d find in Ryan’s bedroom. However, now the idea of Ryan whisking her upstairs to make love made the butterflies in her stomach dive-bomb into the pit of it.
Ryan’s room appeared to have remained untouched since his departure, except for Charlotte’s daily dusting. A strip of baseball wallpaper bordered the top of the white walls. A 1982 Brewers World Series autographed photo hung on the wall. Autographed baseballs individually displayed in small plastic cases filled a shelf. A slew of baseball card albums overflowed from one shelf to another. The worn covers protected the cards, which were undoubtedly in mint condition, having been handled with care.
The room was a shrine to Ryan’s childhood. Suddenly, she could picture him talking to his son about Little League. Yet that didn’t mean he would take time out of his busy schedule to coach the team or attend games.
Cassidy’s parents had rarely attended her events. When they missed her Christmas pageant the year she’d had the starring role of Mary, they’d bought her a piano to make up for their absence. Then they’d insisted music was a more worthwhile art than acting. When she’d intentionally taken last place at a music competition, they finally let her quit lessons.
“Guess he likes baseball,” Cassidy said.
Charlotte beamed with pride. “He played in the minor leagues.”
“Second baseman, he was.” Fiona pointed to a photo on the wall.
Cassidy had seen reference to Ryan’s affiliation with a minor league team in an article she’d skimmed, something about an investment in one. Tall and gorgeous, Ryan stood out among his team members dressed in identical white and navy uniforms, the huge grin on his face evidence he was having the time of his life. Charlotte was right. He needed to laugh more. Granted, Cassidy had first met him at his aunt’s funeral, but still, she’d never seen him look so happy. Why couldn’t he display an ounce of that enthusiasm for finding a wife? A wife who definitely had to be interested in baseball.
“Why’d he quit?” Cassidy asked.
“Had to on account of his knee injury,” Fiona said.
“Poor thing was devastated.” Charlotte kissed her fingertips and pressed them against his photo. “Playing baseball was his lifelong dream.”
It appeared Ryan Mitchell didn’t get everything he wanted.
Books about Joe DiMaggio and other baseball legends lined the desk. Not one book on finance. Several framed photos sat on the desk. She selected one of a beautiful dark-haired woman with a handsome man and young boy.
“Is this Ryan and his parents?”
Fiona nodded sadly. “That was taken right before he came to live with us.”
Cassidy swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat. “What happened to them?”
“They were killed while vacationing in Monaco.”
“Murdered.” Charlotte’s pouty lips pressed firmly together, forming a thin line, and her blue eyes darkened.
“Murdered?” Cassidy muttered.
“Murdered by the feckin’ paparazzi,” Fiona said. “May they burn in hell.”
“The paparazzi killed his parents?”
Fiona’s face reddened. “Run off the road by the bloody paparazzi, they were.”
No wonder he despised the media and refused to grant interviews. She’d been so busy compiling a personality questionnaire she hadn’t researched his parents or thought they really played a role in finding Ryan a wife. Besides the fact that their marriage had proved to Ryan that true love could indeed happen. Yet memories of his family might play a large role in what Ryan would want in a family.
Charlotte placed a finger to her lips, hushing Fiona. “You shouldn’t be talking about it.”
“It’s no secret, it isn’t. We can talk about that.”
Charlotte let out a relieved giggle. “I’m never sure what we can or can’t talk about anymore.”
Fiona shot her a warning look.
What deep dark secrets could the staff possibly have?
• • •
Five minutes after leaving the mansion, Cassidy’s phone sang out.
“You gotta get back here,” Charlie wailed. “Something’s wrong with Barley. He’s puking his guts out and won’t stop.”
“Maybe he has a hairball.”
“Charlotte thinks he swallowed one of his glitter balls.”
“Take him to the vet.”
“I don’t have my license and Fiona’s been drinking.”
What kind of chauffeur didn’t have a license?
“I’ll
be right there.”
She disconnected and did a U-turn in the middle of Lakeshore Drive. Within minutes, she swung into the drive. The staff stood outside, anxiously awaiting her return. Charlie had on Birkenstock sandals and was cradling the black cat against his orange chiffon dress. She no sooner stopped than the staff piled into her Beamer.
Charlie hopped into the front seat. “Let’s see what this baby has under the hood.” He slapped the dashboard.
Barley started retching all over Charlie’s dress and the seat. Cassidy winced. She’d never get her car clean. Yet leaving the staff and Barley stranded wasn’t an option. The fur on the poor thing’s face was wet and matted. He looked and sounded on his deathbed.
Ten minutes later, she zipped into the vet’s lot and parked. Everyone flew from the car and barreled into the clinic. A middle-aged woman in a Scooby-Doo patterned uniform sat behind the reception desk, talking to a woman holding a Chihuahua.
Charlie scurried up to the desk. “Barley’s sick.”
The receptionist eyed Charlie’s dress rather than the sick cat in his arms. “The doctor is with a patient right now, but if you take a seat, I’ll let him know—”
“Bollocks. We need to see him now.” Fiona snatched Barley from Charlie’s arms and plopped him down on the receptionist’s open files. Barley started retching on them.
The woman sprang from her chair, slapping a hand over her mouth. “I’ll go get the doctor.”
She returned with a gray-haired man in blue scrubs and a white jacket who promptly took Barley into the examining room. Charlie and Fiona tagged along to supervise. Hector dropped down in a chair, staring straight ahead in silence. Cassidy had to get home. She had a ton to do. She had to mentally process everything she’d just discovered in Ryan’s old bedroom and tweak the personality questionnaire, do some more research online . . .
“What if they have to operate?” Charlotte’s eyes misted over. She clutched her chiffon dress, crumpling it in her hands. “What if Barley dies?” A loud wail, rather than a dainty sob, erupted from her.
Cassidy swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat, eyeing the car keys in her hand. She tossed the keys in her purse, then slid an arm around Charlotte’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right. The doctor knows what he’s doing.”
