by Eliza Daly
Luckily, the idiot was so focused on drumming up business he’d apparently forgotten what she and Lucy had been working on nonstop for the past few days. Before he remembered and opened his big yap about them trying to find Ryan a chick, she led her client up the cement steps.
“Why’d you stick that pink box in a casket?” Kenny called after her. “You shouldn’t be using them for storage.”
Her stomach dropped. She’d forgotten to take her hatbox out of the casket this morning. She whirled around on the top step to find her breasts in Ryan’s line of vision. His gaze darted down and he stepped aside.
“You didn’t open it, did you?” She wanted to grab Kenny by his lapels and shake him senseless, which would take little effort.
“Of course I opened it. It could have been a bomb.”
“In a pink hat box?”
“Ya think the Unabomber slapped a Fragile, Bomb Enclosed sticker on his packages before he sent them?”
“Where is it?”
“If I were you, I’d seriously consider blowing the box up myself. Kind of strange to have a—”
“Unless you want to end up in the back of there,” she pointed at the hearse, “tell me where it is.”
“All right, all right. It’s upstairs on the kitchen table.”
Ryan looked a tad freaked out by her outburst.
“It’s a very important box.”
“I gather.”
If Ryan discovered the box’s contents, he’d think she was too unstable to fulfill her contract. She might have to agree.
They stepped inside the funeral home where Lucy and Sally—Cassidy’s temporary replacement—were enthusiastically singing along to the theme from Gilligan’s Island. She bolted past the chapel, and luckily, the women were too wrapped up in their song to notice them. Home free, Cassidy turned to head up the stairs and spotted Ryan standing in the chapel’s doorway, watching the women with an amused grin. Reminded him of home, no doubt. The singing ceased, and Lucy introduced Sally, who stood gaping at Ryan. Another minute and she’d be drooling on herself. Cassidy had better rescue him.
“What do you think about this song at a funeral for a guy who loved sailing?” Lucy asked her.
“We’ll put a bon voyage sash across the casket, and Kenny can wear a captain’s uniform. Hey,” Sally’s face lit up, “you could dress like Mary Ann and I could dress like Ginger.”
Lucy gave her a ridiculous look. “I don’t think so. I look more like Ginger.”
“Getting stranded on a desert island isn’t really reflective of a good voyage, is it?” Cassidy asked.
Sally looked deflated. “Suppose not.”
Cassidy hated to burst her bubble the first day on the job. “Run it by the family, let them make the decision. They knew him best.”
Mental note: Preplanning her funeral was top priority, right after finding Ryan’s fiancée. She didn’t want her remains buried in a takeout container from the Golden Dragon.
Lucy and Sally started brainstorming other ideas, singing the theme from Titanic.
“Also not a good voyage,” Cassidy yelled out.
She gestured for Ryan to follow her up the stairs. She stopped abruptly at the top, unsure which room to take him in. He bumped into her, causing her to stumble. He wrapped his hands around her waist, righting her, drawing her against him.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, his hands still on her waist.
Besides the fact that his hands felt way too good and she imagined them roaming to other areas of her body? She shook her head slowly and stepped from his grasp. She opened the apartment door. The kitchen had the hatbox, and the chairs weren’t the most comfortable. Yet neither were the living room’s beanbag chairs and mod furnishings. That left the bedrooms. The thought of them on her chenille bedspread, his hands once again on her body, caused her to go warm all over.
Living room it was then.
She held the orange plastic beads to the side of the living room doorway, enabling Ryan to pass through without becoming entangled, like Kenny often did.
“Groovy pad.” His gaze traveled from the lime-green beanbag chair to the yellow fun fur rug to the orange lava lamp on the white plastic end table.
“How about some water?” Not waiting for a response, she bolted out of the room and into the kitchen to hide the hatbox.
The box sat on the table, the cover looking like the victim of an anxious five-year-old on Christmas morning. The idiot would have set off any bomb. She peeked under the lid, letting out a relieved sigh to find the contents still intact. She went to her bedroom and stashed the box back under the bed. The black-and-white framed photos from Ryan’s office were propped against her dresser. Another reason to keep Ryan out of her bedroom. She’d forgotten to drop them off at the mansion for Fiona.
When she returned, Ryan stood in front of the hula dancer clock on the wall, mesmerized by the hips swaying back and forth in time to the second hand. Another one of Lucy’s eBay treasures.
“The décor is a bit much, but Lucy and Kenny seem to like it.”
“How about you?”
“I don’t care.” She let out an uneasy laugh. “I don’t live here. Why should I care?” She didn’t want him to know that she was so pathetic, she lived above the funeral home with her boss.
He gestured toward a magazine on the cocktail table. “That has your name and this address on it. I just assumed you lived here.”
“I accidentally had it sent to my work address.” The lie flew from her mouth. “I live in a condo in the Third Ward, on the river.” And the lies just kept coming. That was where she used to live.
He glanced at her hands. “Where’s the water?”
“We’re out.”
The soft cooing of a mourning dove drifted through the open window. Ryan walked over and gazed down below. “Is this why you’re lobbying for the protection of mourning doves? You’re providing a safe haven for them? Although it looks like he’s flying solo. Must be between mates.”
“Yes, well, I can’t play matchmaker for everyone, can I?”
A smile curled the corners of his mouth as he continued to stare out the window. “Too bad for him.”
Was he implying he liked having her around, or did he think she was the best damn matchmaker in town? Why’d she hope it was the former?
She sat on the white plastic molded egg chair. “Why don’t you sit down? Your pacing makes me nervous.”
Actually, being alone with him, her bedroom just steps away, made her uneasy.
“That doesn’t look like the most comfortable couch.” He gazed over at the thin orange cushion, which was one step up from a futon. “Looking outside clears my head. Will make it easier for me to answer the questions. By the way, do you get a bonus for advertising the funeral home on the side of your car?”
“It’s a paid company car as long as it advertises the business.”
“Makes good financial sense. What do you invest in? Bonds, money market, a mourning dove sanctuary . . . ?”
“My car and a condo are the only major investments I’ve ever made.”
“A car depreciates 20 to 30 percent the second you drive it off the lot, but a condo is a good investment. Do you have a retirement plan?”
“Yep, I plan to retire to some tropical island and live on piña coladas.”
“How much do you have set aside for your piña colada habit?”
He’d have a field day with her personal finances.
Her gaze narrowed. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.” She pulled a pad of paper from her briefcase. “In the interview, we need to address questions people are undoubtedly asking themselves. Like why you need help finding a wife when you’re Milwaukee’s most eligible bachelor.”
He slid his hands in his pants pockets, gazing up at the sky, formulating an answer. “Unfortunately, my work and philanthropic obligations leave me little time for dating. I don’t believe in trends such as speed-dating where you need to find a mat
ch in a matter of minutes.”
“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”
Ryan turned, meeting her gaze. He continued staring at her. “Not sure.”
She glanced away, easing out a calming breath to stop her heart from racing. She peered back over at him. “Ah, what made you decide to marry now? You’ve been single for thirty-five years.”
He gazed deep into her eyes, as if searching for the answer. She became lost in his piercing blue eyes, unable to recall her question. The clock struck noon, and the hula dancer called out “Alooooha.” His gaze darted to the window, and she peered down at her notepad. He repeated the question as if to get back on track.
“Although my aunt led a fulfilling life, she never married. I don’t want to wake up at eighty and turn over in my bed to find nobody there.”
Wow. “Great answer. You sounded so . . . sincere.”
His cell phone chirped at his waist, and his demeanor turned professional. “Yes, well, finding a wife and getting this over with is extremely important.” He answered the phone.
Of course it was. Not like he might actually want to fall in love and live happily ever after.
But he would.
She’d also live happily ever after, running the city’s most prominent matchmaking/wedding service.
Chapter Thirteen
The backdrop of the Good Morning Milwaukee set simulated Lake Michigan with its painted wave pattern gradually fading from navy to sky blue. Yet Ryan felt like he was on some tropical island in the middle of the friggin’ Caribbean. The temperature was stifling. Just minutes before they went on the air, and the stylist was still messing with his hair. Hopefully her jet-black hair, gelled into a wild frenzy, was no indication of the outcome of his hairdo.
He raised a halting hand. “That’s good.”
She shrugged, as if it was mildly acceptable, then marched off.
“You look fabulous.” Rachel Harris, the host, reached over from her blue upholstered chair and placed a reassuring hand on his, letting it linger.
The woman blended right in on the tropical set with her yellow tweed suit, bronzed skin, and sun-drenched blonde hair. Her teeth were blindingly white and the sincerity behind her smile was questionable.
He glanced over at Cassidy standing next to a cameraman, and she smiled, giving him a little finger wave. Her smile didn’t merely include her lips but also her eyes, always filled with enthusiasm. The tiny laugh lines around them gave testament to her great sense of humor. Smiling was as natural to her as breathing, unlike Rachel. He didn’t know Rachel, but he knew her type. Self-absorbed and self-serving, like the women he used to date.
Used to date?
Rachel flashed him another smile as she rambled on about the impending interview. Why had he trusted this woman? What if she strayed from the designated questions and put him on the spot? Got him to admit something he didn’t want to? He envisioned her overly plump pink lips latching onto his neck and sucking the life out of him.
How had his aunt pandered to these leeches?
His shirt collar seemed to tighten around his neck, constricting his breathing. This was a huge mistake. He had to get the hell out of here. He was about to bolt when the cameraman’s voice paralyzed him in the chair.
“And five, four, three . . . ” The cameraman pointed to Rachel.
Rachel perked up in her chair and flashed all of Milwaukee one of her killer smiles. “Good morning, Milwaukee,” she said, reading from the teleprompter. “Another gorgeous fall day in a beautiful city on a great lake. I am very excited to introduce today’s guest, Ryan Mitchell. As most of you know, the city’s most eligible bachelor is soon to be off the market.” She turned to Ryan, a baffled expression on her pert face. “So, why would a handsome, successful guy like yourself need help finding a wife? You must have women lining up at your door.”
Ryan shifted nervously in his chair. “Yes, well,” he swallowed hard, “good question.”
Now what the hell was his answer?
His mind was a complete blank. Why hadn’t he supplied his answers ahead of time so he, too, could be guided through the interview by the teleprompter? Because . . . the responses he’d given Cassidy yesterday were too sentimental. The type of answers a woman desperate for love would want to hear. A woman who wouldn’t agree to a divorce before they were even married. Wouldn’t it be worse to mislead women into thinking they were getting something they weren’t?
The purpose of this interview wasn’t to attract women; it was to give the media nowhere to go. If he suddenly came across all sappy, destroying his playboy reputation, reporters’ curiosity would be piqued and they’d become even nosier. If that were possible.
An awkward silence filled the room. Cassidy smiled encouragingly for him to proceed, and Rachel eagerly awaited his response.
“I don’t think the idea of using a matchmaker to find contestants for The Dating Game is so odd. Selecting a wife is similar to selecting a stock. Think of a matchmaker as a sort of research analyst. Both assist me in researching the thousands of options out there, helping me make an informed decision. Like a stock, if I don’t know the woman’s past performance, I may end up dumping her right away.”
What woman seeking a loving, committed relationship would want to be compared to a stock? He relaxed back in the chair, his shirt collar seeming to loosen around his neck, the room temperature dropping drastically—undoubtedly due to Cassidy’s frigid glare.
Rachel’s teeth no longer sparkled behind her wide smile but were hidden behind an uneasy one. “Interesting analogy.”
“I wouldn’t rush into a business venture without conducting extensive research, so why rush into marriage without knowing the woman’s liabilities and,” he eyed Rachel’s mouth with interest, “assets?”
Rachel licked her lips, and his blatant flirting put a big smile back on her face. “So what made you decide to marry now?”
“Like the market, it’s all about timing.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Rachel agreed hesitantly. “What made you decide on The Dating Game? Sounds like a reality TV show, and we all know those relationships don’t last. Aren’t you afraid you’re setting yourself up for failure?”
“Regardless of whether a couple meets in the grocery store, a bar, or on TV, it’s a reality that one in two marriages end in divorce.”
A gasp of shock erupted from the set. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that either. He kept his gaze fixed on Rachel, not wanting to see the disappointment on Cassidy’s face. His gut wrenched with guilt for letting her down after he’d agreed to the interview. Even though he was doing the right thing.
Following a few more questions, they went to commercial. Cassidy stormed onto the set, her hands balled into fists at the side of her hot pink suit. “What the hell was that!” A wild look replaced the usual sparkle in her eyes. “Instead of some woman’s sign, you’d rather know her stock symbol? So you can determine her net worth?”
He shrugged. “Camera fright. I was having a hard time remembering the answers.” True, because if he hadn’t froze, forgetting his answers, he wouldn’t have had time to formulate new ones.
“You were certainly relaxed enough to flirt with Rachel.”
“Hey,” Rachel protested.
Cassidy shot her a threatening look, and Rachel sprang from her chair and walked over to the producer.
Cassidy glared at him. “You came across like an arrogant playboy.”
“Our goal was to give the media nowhere to go. To answer their questions, and that’s precisely what I did.”
“You’re right.” She tossed her arms up in defeat. “Why should I have expected you to take the interview seriously? You don’t care about your future, why should you care about mine?”
“You’re a wedding planner. Who I marry doesn’t affect your job.”
Her jaw tightened and her gaze sharpened. “You haven’t taken anything seriously. You’ll have your millions, and that’s all that matters. Fine
, marry someone for money. I couldn’t care less if you wake up eighty years old and alone.” She spun around and huffed off.
If being alone was the only way he could keep the ones he loved and himself safe, then that’s the way it had to be.
• • •
Cassidy stalked across the television studio’s parking lot toward her car. No way would she find Ryan’s soul mate after that fiasco. Finding him a fiancée wouldn’t be an issue. Plenty of women wouldn’t mind being treated like a business deal as long as they were well compensated. Hell, her mother hadn’t minded. And Ryan was a lot like her father.
He was up front from the beginning about the type of marriage he desired. More than a soul mate, he wanted his inheritance. Plain and simple. For him, maybe, but not her. Yet he’d hired her to find him a wife, and she should be a professional and do her job, even though he’d just blown her shot at offering a niche business to clients and being the envy of every wedding company, especially To Have and To Hold. If all else failed, maybe she could take her matchmaking skills on the road as a carnival act and charge a buck a couple advising them yea or nay if their marriage would make it. At least Ryan’s short-lived marriage wouldn’t taint her reputation since people wouldn’t know she’d played matchmaker. And they certainly couldn’t blame the wedding planner when Ryan divorced after only a year. At least she hadn’t been blamed for anyone’s divorce before.
She got into her car, which smelled like a fruit stand thanks to the strawberry air freshener hung from the rearview mirror and a cherry one from the knob on the radio. An orange-scented one lay on the passenger seat, and a grape one on the floor. She’d cleaned the upholstery but hadn’t been able to get the stench of vomit out completely. She rolled down the window.
“Fly Me to the Moon” sang out from her briefcase, and she answered her cell phone.
It was Alex. The marketing department had dropped off the first batch of applications. She’d requested printed copies to make it easier for sorting and taking notes.
Twenty minutes later, she stood in his office.
“Those are all applications?” Cassidy stared in disbelief at the humongous plastic tub packed with papers.
