by Donna Ball
Rarely did Cassie come across a man who was so protective of his privacy, and that could only make her job more difficult. Obviously her current approach wasn't going to work, so she threw up her hands in a small gesture of resignation. "All right," she invited. "Let's talk about her."
"Great." Shane got to his feet, his expression pleased. "Do you mind if we walk while we talk? This place is starting to get a little crowded."
Two other couples had come out while they were sitting, and though Cassie would hardly call that a crowd, she thought it might be considered one to a man who had spent most of his life in the vast open spaces of Alaska. She picked up her jacket and her purse and let him lead the way.
He didn't turn back toward the office, but continued down the street at an easy pace, his fingers tucked into his front pockets and his head tipped back to catch the slant of the sun. It was already warm, and Cassie carried her jacket over her arm. She hoped he didn't intend to walk far.
"All right," she said, "let's look at your specifications one by one." From what she had been able to determine about him so far, he seemed like a fairly intelligent man, and even reasonable to some extent. She hoped to appeal to his better judgment by simply letting him hear his fantasies brought into the light of day. "First, if I recall, you said you didn't want your wife to work. Have you really thought about that?"
"Oh, I know all about women's lib and how everybody has a job these days," he answered, and Cassie was cautiously encouraged. At least he had heard of the role of the modern woman. "But," he continued, "I'm retired. I've got nothing tying me down. My time's my own, to travel, give a party if I want to, do things without planning for them. And I want my wife to be able to come along. She couldn't do that if she had a job. Make sense?"
Unfortunately it did. Cassie had to remind herself, as she conceded the point to him, that this wasn't a game of one-upmanship.
"And, of course," he continued easily, "I think the kids should have a full-time mother. I'm not interested in any woman who can't make up her mind between her family and her work."
Cassie seized on that. "A woman can do both, Mr. Bartlett. In fact, most people agree that a woman who is content in her work outside the home makes a more interesting, fulfilling companion. Do you really want to live with someone who never reads a newspaper or a book and who has absolutely nothing to say to you outside of the latest cute thing Junior did today?"
"I never said she couldn't read a newspaper," Shane replied, unconcerned. "And since I'm going to be home to see all the cute things Junior did, we'll have lots to talk about."
"You cannot keep a woman as a slave," Cassie said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. "You've got to consider the other person's happiness, or I promise you the relationship is doomed from the start. You've got to allow for—"
Shane stopped on the sidewalk and looked at her. His mild brown eyes were filled with patience and unshakable conviction. "Look," he said simply, "all I want is to settle down with one person for the rest of my life and raise a family. And if you're trying to tell me that there's not one woman in this city who wants the same thing, then it seems to me God just wasted his time inventing two sexes. I mean, that's what it's all about, isn't it? Going forth and multiplying?"
Cassie had absolutely no answer to that, and the fact frustrated her no end. "All right. We'll leave that for a minute." She started walking again. "The point I'm trying to make, Mr. Bartlett—"
"Could you call me Shane? Every time you say my name you make me feel like I should take my hat off and scoot down in my desk."
"Well, all right." She tried out his name a little awkwardly. "Shane..."
"Do you have a name?"
There she hesitated. "I've found that it's best, for professional relations—"
"Remember when you told me you were going to be my best friend? I don't usually call my best friends by their last names. Besides, I can never remember whether it's supposed to be Miss or Mrs. or Ms."
Cassie couldn't understand why he professed such discomfort in social situations; the easy warmth of his smile could easily melt the coldest female heart. After a moment she found herself returning that smile. "You could always call me, 'Hey You.'"
His smile turned into a grin, and Cassie reminded herself sternly that this was an interview, not a flirtation—and she was a little annoyed with herself for having forgotten, even for an instant. "My name is Cassandra—Cassie," she said. "You may call me whatever you feel comfortable with."
"Now that opens up some interesting possibilities," he murmured.
Cassie didn't glance at him. To have done so would have given him an opportunity to change the subject again. "As I was saying," she began determinedly.
“You were about to make another speech."
"I was about to say," she corrected, "that you simply can't be so rigid in your demands, and if you spend some time thinking about it, you'll see that I'm right."
"I've spent fifteen years thinking about it."
"You've spent fifteen years fantasizing," Cassie pointed out. "Daydreaming about all the things you didn't have and wished you did. And like most men, the things you've come up with are not only unrealistic, they offer very short-term satisfaction. For example, what if you met a woman who was perfect in every way, but couldn't cook?"
"Food's important to me," he argued. "I can't cook, so it only makes sense that my wife should."
"Nonsense. Hire a housekeeper. Or learn to cook yourself."
"It wouldn't be the same. A woman who doesn't like to cook generally doesn't like to eat. I want someone who enjoys the same things I do."
" You like to eat, but you don't know how to cook."
"It's not the same for a man."
It was all Cassie could do to keep from slapping the palm of her hand against her head in frustration. "All right," she said, drawing a breath through her teeth. "What about this business of 'talking too much'? Surely you don't intend to spend the rest of your life with a sullen, simpering female who can't even carry on a conversation?"
"I'm not a real talkative person myself," he replied implacably. He cast a sideways glance at her and added, "Generally. I need a woman who understands I like my peace and quiet sometimes."
Cassie was within a hairbreadth of being convinced that he did know more about what he wanted than she did. But she was too stubborn to admit it. "I suppose there's no point in trying to convince you that the perfect woman doesn't always wear a size eight and have blond hair and blue eyes."
"You can't argue with a man's taste."
No, that she couldn't do.
They had walked several blocks, and Cassie's feet were beginning to burn. She could feel her blouse sticking to her back in several places, and her hair was beginning to frizz around her face with perspiration. But she wasn't ready to give up yet. "Have you ever known a woman like the one you just described?"
He seemed to review the candidates in his head. "Not really. One or two came close."
"All right, the one that came closest—why didn't you marry her?"
"Oh, I don't know. Lots of reasons. I guess mostly because something didn't click."
"Or could it be because once you got to know her, you found out she wasn't really what you wanted at all?"
"Well, sure, I guess that was it. No spark."
"So you see, your criteria didn't really work as well as you thought," she pointed out smugly. "And that's why I'm going to use different criteria."
"Like what?"
"Like finding out what you need, not what you want."
"There's a difference?"
"Always."
After a moment he shrugged. "Okay, I'm game. What do I need?"
She paused on the street and looked him over speculatively. "I don't think I'm ready to tell you that yet."
Shane was beginning to feel the smallest edge of frustration. This was turning out to be far more complicated than he had expected, and he had an unpleasant suspicion he was wasting his time.. .not t
o mention his money.
"Look," he said, "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I've got to be honest with you. You've been talking to me all morning, and I not only didn't understand half of what you said, but I don't think you do, either. Are you trying to tell me that if you fix me up with someone I don't want I'll be happy?"
Cassie smiled and shook her head. "Not exactly."
"Then you've got some kind of secret formula for romance that's supposed to make me fall in love with whatever woman you pull out of your hat?"
"There's a formula, yes," she agreed. "But it has nothing to do with romance. And as for love—well, that's a highly misunderstood term."
Shane's skepticism grew. He was sure he wasn't going to like the answer she gave to his next question. "What do you mean by that?"
“I mean," she answered easily, "people have built a whole mystique out of something that doesn't really exist—not in the accepted sense, anyway. Love is nothing more than need—on a sexual, mental and emotional level. When two people stimulate that need in each other, even if the need is only partially fulfilled, you have love. Or, as I like to call it, success. Compatibility is only one ingredient in that success, which is why it really isn't important for me to know what you think you want. It takes an objective observer who knows both the people involved to put all the ingredients together successfully."
Shane was feeling more and more uneasy about this whole arrangement. First, she told him he didn't know his own mind. Then she told him it didn't matter what he wanted. Now she was telling him there was no such thing as love. What kind of matchmaker was she, anyway?
He took off his hat and squinted at the sun, running his fingers uncertainly through his curls. "Look, maybe I should think about this some more...."
She ignored him and scanned the street opposite them. Suddenly she touched his arm. "Let's cross here."
"What for?"
But when she led him toward the door of an exclusive men's shop, he knew what for, and he balked. "Now what do you think you're doing?"
"We're buying you some new clothes."
"I've got all the clothes I need."
She looked him over once with an expression that left little doubt about her opinion of his taste. "You've been out of the social scene for a long time," she explained, "and Dallas can be a pretty demanding town. You're going to look your best before you go out with anyone on my list."
She started to open the door, but he put his hand above hers, holding it closed. "Now let's just get one thing straight," he said firmly. "I am who I am and I’m not changing for anybody. If you think you're going to make me over with a new suit of clothes—"
"Don't be silly," Cassie responded impatiently. "Nobody's trying to change you. All I'm talking about is making a good impression. Don't you think your date is going to go to a little extra trouble fixing her hair and putting on makeup and picking out a dress? There's no reason in the world why you shouldn't give her the same courtesy."
Cassie could see him trying to think of arguments, but after a moment the stubborn expression on his face faded to mild disgruntlement. "You're the bossiest woman I ever did meet," he muttered, and removed his hand from the door.
Twenty minutes later Shane stepped out of the dressing room in a nicely cut summer-weight suit with western shoulders and trim pants. Cassie was pleased with her instincts and impressed with the transformation. The oyster shell color enhanced his bronze shading without making him look monochromatic, and the casual style suited his lanky build perfectly. He would make heads turn in any restaurant or club in the city, though she suspected he could have done that without the help of a new suit.
“Well, what do you think?" she asked.
Shane bent his arms at the elbows, then held them straight out, checking the length of the cuffs. He turned to the mirror, smoothed down the jacket and peered at himself sideways. "Not bad," he admitted. "Better than I thought it would be. I can live with this."
"Of course you can. I told you, I know what I'm doing."
"Perhaps an inch longer in the cuffs," the clerk commented.
"Right," agreed Cassie. "And maybe a little tighter through here." She made a small tuck in one leg of the pants with her fingers. Shane seemed startled at her touch, but he didn't protest. "And the waist..."
She pinched his waistband with her fingers and felt the heat and firmness of his abdomen beneath the material of his shirt. He stepped back, as though her touch were an electric thing, and she, just as quickly, jerked her hand away, embarrassed. Until that moment the interchange had been impersonal, and Cassie, in fact, had hardly been aware of what she was doing. Now she was acutely aware of how close she was standing, half bent over to examine the fit of the suit with his pelvis and long legs filling up her vision, and she imagined she could still feel the warmth of his body on her fingertips.
She cleared her throat and moved away quickly. "Well," she said to the clerk, "you make whatever alterations you think are necessary. And let's have two more in the materials we looked at."
She had a selection of ties over her arm and picked one at random, holding it close to Shane's face. There was no way she could avoid looking at him then, and she was prepared for the knowing, almost intimate glint of speculation in his eyes. She stared him down coolly. "Don't wear blue." She discarded the tie. "This topaz is more your color...." She held it up to make sure. "Or this green."
"I don't wear ties," Shane pointed out.
"Mr. Sedgton, where is that pink shirt I was looking at?"
Shane took an adamant step back, both hands raised in protest. "And I don't wear pink!"
"Don't be silly. Lots of men wear pink." She took the folded shirt Mr. Sedgton provided and held it beneath Shane's neck. "Besides, it's not really pink. It's more of a peach. And it looks nice. Let's try the yellow."
Shane endured her ministrations for another three shirts and five ties with long-suffering silence, but Cassie could see rebellion building in his eyes. When she took a step back and looked critically down at his boots, he said forcefully, "No, ma'am. I don't get rid of these boots for anybody. You can dress me up in your fancy suit and put me in a tie and maybe, just maybe, you can get me to wear pink, but you're not taking these boots."
Cassie could see she had already pushed her luck as far as it would go, so she shrugged and turned back to Mr. Sedgton. "How soon can you have these things delivered?"
"We can have one suit ready this afternoon, but the others may take until late tomorrow."
"That's fine," approved Cassie, "but make certain you have one suit finished today. Mr. Bartlett has a date tonight."
Shane, who was shrugging out of the jacket on his way to the dressing room, stopped. The surprise in his expression showed that he was busily reworking his opinion of Cassie's skills as a matchmaker. "Already? You've got someone already?"
"Yes," Cassie replied. "Me." She couldn't tell whether the expression on his face was astonishment or dismay, and she wasn't sure she really wanted to know. Without giving a misunderstanding any time to develop, she added, "Think of it as a practice run."
"Practice!" There was no mistaking his expression now. It was sheer astonishment, liberally mixed with outrage as he stared at her. "You expect me to audition for a date?"
Cassie waved a dismissing hand. "Not at all. It's just that I need to see how you conduct yourself on a date, what your tastes in entertainment are, what you expect from the evening... and what you contribute, to be honest. Talking to you is one thing, but I really need to see how you behave in public."
"Like whether I eat with my fingers or spit on the table?"
Cassie realized how poorly she had worded her explanation and apologized quickly. "Of course not. Nothing like that. But surely you know that people are often different in social situations than in private—the nervousness, the pretenses. Everything comes into play, and I need to be prepared for it."
His eyes narrowed on her. "Do you do this for all your clients?"
&n
bsp; "Well, no," she admitted, but held his gaze. "Most of my clients don't give me less than a month to find them a wife. We can't afford to make any mistakes, can we?"
Shane supposed she had a point, but he wasn't in the mood to see it. He had walked into her office, expecting a few minutes of idle chat, a signed contract, a check delivered and that would be that. In the past hour and a half she had probed him with personal questions, as much as assured him he was too stupid to know what he wanted, criticized his taste and even gotten him out of his pants—and under much less pleasant circumstances than he was accustomed to. This should have been as easy and impersonal as going to the bank. Instead, he felt as though he had just spent two hours in a doctor's office. And it wasn't over yet.
He glared at her. "I guess you're going to tell me what to wear?"
"Oh, no," she assured him. "I'll leave everything up to you. You can even pick the restaurant. I'm just an observer."
"This is the craziest thing I've ever heard of," he muttered.
"Believe me, it makes perfect sense. Would you accept a blind date from someone who didn't even know you? Same principle."
It wasn't the same at all, and for two cents Shane would have called the whole thing off right then. But he had made a deal, and despite what Jack said about things working differently in the civilized world, Shane Bartlett's word was still his bond.
Besides, he had gone this far. What harm could it do to give her one evening? At least he'd get a meal out of it.
He ran his hand through his hair and released a sigh. "Ah, what the hell," he decided ungraciously. "But not tonight," he interrupted as she opened her mouth for more instructions. "I've left the pup locked up too long as it is and I'm not going to leave it alone again tonight."
She looked surprised, and she was grinning. "You really got a dog?"
Shane was unamused. "Yes, I really got a dog. What's so funny about that?"
She chuckled and shook her head. "Nothing," she answered, her eyes twinkling. "It's just nice to know you follow instructions so well. This may be easier than I thought."
