by Donna Ball
But, God, she got tired of black and gray! And after noticing the crow's-feet, spending the day confined in one of those ugly costumes seemed like cruel and unusual punishment. On impulse she took out a green linen skirt and jacket with a paisley blouse. She held the outfit up before her and smiled approvingly into the mirror. The skirt was flared, the jacket was nipped at the waist, and the color magnified her eyes in a most flattering way. It was, in short, completely inappropriate for the office, and today Cassie didn't care. She needed self-esteem more than she needed self-image, and even if she wasn't much of a businesswoman today, she could at least look like a woman. Besides, who cared what she looked like in an empty office? And the way things had been going lately, the office would probably stay empty.
Perhaps there was something to color therapy, Cassie thought, because as she showered and dressed she actually began to feel more confident. There was, after all, no big mystery to success in business, any more than there was anything mystical about finding a compatible mate. All it took was planning, forethought and the right formula. And if there was anyone who could find that formula, it was Cassie Averil.
***
Shane was awakened at daybreak by the sound of hammers and saws. When the best architect in the city recommended the best contractor, that contractor made sure his crews were on the site before sunup and worked until dusk. Shane could have done with a little less enthusiasm and a little more peace and quiet, but he couldn't fault the progress of the construction.
He rubbed his face and swung his feet over the side of the bed, and barely missed stepping in a puddle. Whiskers sat nearby, looking at him expectantly. Shane returned the dog's gaze with a little less charity. "The lady was wrong," he muttered. "A dog is not the answer to all my problems."
The contractor had promised his house would be finished by the end of the month. Meanwhile, Shane was living in a one-room construction trailer which, all things considered, was more luxurious than the surroundings in which he had spent most of his life. The automatic coffee maker had already prepared its brew, so Shane pulled on a pair of jeans, poured a cup of coffee and took the dog and his breakfast outside.
No matter what was wrong with the world, the morning air and the morning view never failed to put it right again. The puppy scampered off to do the things puppies do, and Shane sat on the steps of the trailer, sipping his coffee and contentedly looking around at what was, as far as the eye could see, all his. He had bought Long Acre, lock, stock and barrel, from a cattleman who was moving his operation to Australia. The first thing he had done was sell off all the stock. The cattle were a picturesque touch, but they sounded like entirely too much work. The second thing he had done was bulldoze the perfectly good ranch house to the ground. No one seemed surprised; Texans were used to extravagant gestures. And the third thing he had done, even before he started construction on the house, was to build a swimming pool. The best hours of his life, so far, had been spent lying around that pool, doing absolutely nothing.
There were pecan groves and streams, rolling hills and flat, verdant meadows. A twenty-acre lake was stocked with bass and a field seeded for quail. There were even stables and some horses that experts told him were very fine stock, which he had decided to keep because he thought he might someday like to learn to ride. And in the midst of all this, less than two hundred yards from where he sat, rose his house—a sprawling two stories of rich red brick with terraces and patios, six bedrooms, seven baths, a wine cellar, an indoor pool and every modern amenity known to man. All in all, it was paradise.
And it meant nothing unless he had somebody to share it with.
He looked around when he heard the sound of a vehicle rounding the curve in the long driveway, and a gray Mercedes came into view. He lifted his hand in greeting as the car stopped and Jack Sanders got out. "That's what I like," he said as Jack approached. "A man who takes his job seriously."
Jack grinned and gestured toward the construction crew. "Everybody knows the architect doesn't show up on the job site unless something's got to be ripped out and rebuilt. So I like to come out every once in a while just to put the fear of God into those guys. Keeps them on their toes, and when I tell them everything is going along just fine, they're so grateful they work twice as hard." He pulled up a lawn chair and sat down. "So, you got anything you want ripped out or redesigned?"
Shane chuckled and shook his head. At that moment Whiskers came around the side of the trailer, sniffing the ground and wagging his tail. "How about a doghouse?"
"Well, look at that." Jack held out his hand, and the puppy came bounding over, circled Jack's chair a couple of times and scampered away again. "You're not wasting any time settling down to country living. What's he supposed to be?"
"I don't know. Some kind of Saint Bernard, I think."
"Forget the doghouse. I'd better start designing another wing. So." He settled back in his chair and regarded Shane with friendly, sun-narrowed eyes. "How'd it go with the matchmaker yesterday?"
"Do you want some coffee?"
"Does that mean it didn't go too well?"
Shane smothered a sheepish grin. "She kicked me out."
"Cassie Averil?" Jack's eyebrows shot up with astonishment. "Now that I can't believe. What'd you do, make a pass at her?"
“Of course not. I just did what I was supposed to do—told her what I wanted. She acted like she was a mother superior and I'd been caught climbing over the convent wall."
Jack shifted his weight and nodded thoughtfully. He was a good-size man—testament to what a woman's cooking could do—and the lawn chair squeaked a little in protest. "I should have seen it coming."
Shane looked at him curiously. "What?"
Jack seemed to hesitate a minute, then came to a decision. He said, "I haven't known you very long, Shane, but I like you, and I think any woman would be damn lucky to have you. So what I'm going to tell you now, I'm telling you for your own good.
"You've been living in a man's world too long. You work hard, you fight your fights, you keep to the straight trail, and as long as you keep your eyes peeled for trouble, you get along okay. But here in civilization, as much as I hate to admit it, it's a woman's world, and things are a little more complicated. Women like finesse, you see. They like to take things slow. And a woman like Miss Cassie—well, she takes great pride in doing things right. You can't just walk up to her like you would a man and lay your cards on the table. There's got to be a little game playing first."
Shane frowned into his coffee. "Sounds like an awful lot of trouble to me."
"Exactly my point," Jack said immediately. "Finding the right woman is a lot of trouble. Some men go their whole life and never find her. You can't rush a thing like this, Shane. Look around, give it a lot of thought, take some time."
“I've thought about it," Shane responded forcefully. "I've spent thirty-two years thinking about it. That's half a lifetime. The way I figure it, I don't have any time to waste. That was the whole idea behind this marriage broker business in the first place."
Jack shook his head sadly. "I swear I've never seen the like in my life. A good-looking fella like you, great big new house with two pools and a hot tub, not a care in the world. You should be out painting this town three different shades of red, son. That swimming pool should be crawling with willing young things every night of the week. They ought to be dripping off you like honey from a tree, and all you can think about is diaper bags and home cooking." He shook his head again. "Craziest thing I ever heard of."
Shane finished his coffee. "That's what I want, Jack. A man ought to know what he wants."
"I reckon so." Jack looked at him for another moment. "Your mind's made up, then?"
"Sure is."
Jack sighed. "Well, then, I think you'd better give Miss Cassie another chance. And go a little easy on her this time."
Shane winced and repressed a shudder. "Go back to Attila the Hun? I don't think so."
"You want results, don't you?"
"There's always my sister."
Shane looked at him uncertainly. "Your sister is forty-five years old."
"But single."
"And—no offense, Jack—but some people might say she's just a little on the plump side.”
Jack grinned. "A hell of a country cook."
Shane considered it for a moment, weighing his options. Then he got to his feet. "I think I'll give the matchmaker another shot," he said, but he wasn't happy about it. Not one bit.
***
Cassie strode into the office, announcing energetically, "Okay, this is what we're going to do. Write a check for the furniture and send it to the telephone company. Write a check to the telephone company and send it to the furniture people. That'll buy us some time while they get it straightened out. Meanwhile, call Frank Lender and see if he's free tonight. Then get Elizabeth Michaels on the phone."
"Perfect," exclaimed Emma. She was already dialing. "I don't know why I didn't think of Frank before. He's perfect for her." Her eyes twinkled as she covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "Glad to see you're back to your old form."
Cassie made a circle of her thumb and forefinger and sailed into her office.
Twenty minutes later she had made reservations for a quiet booth at an intimate restaurant that both Elizabeth and Frank favored, she had advised Elizabeth on what to wear and had ordered roses in Frank's name. A little atmosphere never hurt; it was all part of the game. She had briefed both parties on the personal history of the other, and it looked like a promising evening. She didn't even allow herself a moment for self-congratulations, but immediately pulled out another file.
Cassie supposed she was a voyeur in a way, deriving vicarious satisfaction from delving into other people's psyches, discovering things about them that they themselves didn't even know, and then finding, through skill and hard work, another person whose needs and sensitivities meshed with the first. But the satisfaction Cassie felt in her work was due less to the reward of a job well done than to the process itself: simple, predictable, reliable. Introvert plus extrovert equals stimulation. Like to like equals happiness. Need plus fulfillment equals love. The intricate process of analysis, comparison and rejection was absorbing and challenging, and Cassie quickly became lost in her work.
At midmorning there was a tap on her door, and Cassie looked up from her charts and graphs to see Shane Bartlett standing there. "I got a dog," he said. "It wasn't the same."
Her pulse actually skipped a beat, and she wasn't certain whether it was from surprise, remembered embarrassment for her behavior yesterday or simply from the fact that in a city that was known for its rugged, good-looking men, Shane Bartlett could have easily posed for a Chamber of Commerce welcome poster.
He was dressed much as he had been yesterday—in jeans that hugged his hips and thighs, an open leather vest and a dark belt with a big silver buckle. His shirt was white, with the sleeves turned up to the elbows, and it looked magnificent against his deep tan. And today the boots showed signs of polishing, which didn't help their appearance much, but did at least show he was willing to try.
He stood with one foot over the threshold and the door only partially open, as though unsure of his welcome. Cassie stood quickly and smiled. "Mr. Bartlett, how nice to see you again. Please come in."
Shane hesitated. All the way into town he had been having second thoughts, and he still wasn't sure what he was doing here. But in her green dress and multicolored blouse she looked less formidable than she had yesterday. She looked, in fact, almost feminine. And her smile of welcome, if it wasn't genuine, was certainly a very good imitation. Cautiously he came inside, but kept his hand on the doorknob.
"Jack said I ought to give you another chance," he said. Then, realizing that might sound a little ungracious, and not wanting to set her off again, he added quickly, "I guess I might have come on too strong yesterday."
With all of her newfound resolutions for success in mind, Cassie was forced to admit, "Perhaps we both did."
Shane almost relaxed. This wasn't as hard as he had expected. "So, how about starting over?"
For the space of five seconds Cassie argued with herself. She needed the money. She needed Jack Sanders's goodwill. But she didn't have a prayer in heaven of finding Shane Bartlett a wife, or even a date, and her respect for women everywhere rebelled at the thought of even trying. On the other hand, how could she know unless she tried? And Emma was right: this would be the ultimate test of her skills as an analyst and the final proof of her theories of compatibility. Shane Bartlett didn't want just a date; he wanted a wife. How could she turn down such an opportunity? Surely there was a woman for every man, and if she didn't believe that, she shouldn't be in the business.
In the end, she succumbed to the sense of challenge—or perhaps it was simple greed—and she smiled at him. "Why don't you come in and have a seat? Close the door."
He still looked hesitant, but he did as she asked.
To cover her uneasiness over the growing conviction that this was a mistake, Cassie began to speak hurriedly. "Let me tell you a bit about the way we operate. My clients generally sign a contract that entitles them to use my service for a year. The initial fee covers the cost of setup and file maintenance and is renewable at a substantial discount. Of course, you understand I can't make any guarantees, but what I try to do when someone comes in here is to gather an extensive psychological profile on him or her, and make introductions based on what I know about the client's personality, temperament, values, goals, all that sort of thing. As I may have said before, we don't operate in the manner of a traditional dating service in that we leave nothing to chance. You shouldn't expect to have to meet more than two or three women before you find someone with whom it's possible to form a firm relationship. That, after all, is the advantage of employing a service like this—it eliminates the hassle and rejection of the singles scene. You can be assured that when I do introduce you to someone, I've done my very best to eliminate the guess work."
She couldn't tell, from his expression, whether he was impressed or whether he had, in fact, understood anything she had said. Cassie took a breath and gave him a smile that was far more confident than she felt. "So, I guess the first thing we should discuss is the fee."
She took a slip of paper and felt a momentary twinge of guilt when she wrote down a figure that was twice her normal fee. She passed it across the desk to him.
Shane examined it for a moment without any visible reaction. Then he said, "I'll tell you what. You find me a wife by the end of the month and you can add an extra zero to that number. My house is going to be finished by then," he explained, and pushed the paper back to her. "I'd like to have a bride ready to move in."
Cassie stared at him and thought, This man can't be for real. He simply can't be. She had thought that yesterday must have been a fluke, a mistake or misunderstanding on both their parts, yet here he was today making even more outrageous demands. A month. Placing an order for a wife as if he were ordering a new carpet or drapes to complete his house.
And finally it sank in. An extra zero. Ten times the amount she had written down which was already twice as much as she usually charged.... An extra zero! She could pay her rent, she could buy office furniture instead of leasing it, she could install a computer system for bookkeeping, she could pay Emma's back salary, not to mention her own, she could stay in operation for the rest of the year without lifting a finger. Her business, in short, would be saved.
Cassie cleared her throat. She looked at the slip of paper again. She looked back at him. "You are serious, aren't you?"
Shane was getting a little tired of hearing that question, but he tried not to let it show. If it was this much trouble just hiring a matchmaker, what did he have to look forward to when the actual selection process began? He answered as patiently as he could. "Yes, ma'am, I'm serious."
Cassie returned her gaze to
the paper, mentally inserting another zero. You can't do this, Cassie. It's not right. It's not ethical, it's not moral, it may not even be legal.
But another zero...
Her voice sounded a little hoarse as she said, "Mr. Bartlett, did you ever hear the expression, 'money can't buy love'?"
"I'm not trying to buy love," he explained, shifting restlessly. "I'm buying your services." He smiled. "Love just comes naturally."
She would be a fool to accept his offer. She couldn't possibly find someone to fit his specifications even if she had wanted to. And she didn't want to, even if she had a year instead of less than a month.
Carefully she said, "I would need half the fee up front as a deposit."
He took out his checkbook.
She would find someone for him, Cassie vowed fervently, if she had to go through the entire Dallas-Fort Worth phone book and start knocking on doors.
But then he gave her the check and an attack of conscience seized her. This wasn't a joke. She had more money in her hand right now than she had seen in the past three months combined, and she had a horrible feeling she was getting in over her head. She thought of all those pictures of happily married couples on the walls that had lured him in. Was that fraud?
Hating herself even as she spoke, she said, "Mr. Bartlett, I've got to be honest with you. We arrange dates, not marriages. And," she continued, suffering an almost physical pain as the admission was torn from her, "sometimes those dates aren't one hundred percent successful. You can't expect any guarantees."
He looked mildly surprised. "Ma'am, when I buy a car I expect the engine to run. When I build a house I expect the plumbing to work. You just gave me your word and I just gave you my money. Now, can you find me a wife or not?"
Cassie, Cassie, don't be a fool....
She had devoted her life to developing a process by which the element of chance could be taken out of interpersonal relationships. For years she had told herself that the only reason her theory wasn't one hundred percent successful was because the people involved weren't sufficiently motivated. No one wanted to expend any effort or make a commitment to success. She couldn't work with flawed material.
