by Donna Ball
Cassie thought about that for a moment. "I don't see why not. Just act the same way you would on a real date."
"It's an audition," Shane said darkly.
The waiter arrived just then, sparing Cassie further discussion on the subject. Shane, predictably, ordered the biggest steak on the menu and draft beer. Cassie ordered vichyssoise, lobster Newburg and mineral water.
"It takes two, you know," Shane commented when the waiter was gone. "If I have to pretend this is a normal date, so do you."
"I'm not sure I remember how. It's been a long time since I had a real date."
"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" he murmured. When she looked at him sharply, he asked, "So why didn't you ever get married?"
Cassie should have responded that that was none of his business, that it was he who was being interviewed, not she, and that her motivations and marital status weren't at issue. But sometimes, she knew, the best way to get a man to talk about himself was to answer his questions, so she replied, "I chose not to. My career takes up all of my energy, and I like it that way."
He nodded with a perception that she thought was uncharacteristic of him. "It's easier to fix up other people's lives than your own."
"What about you? Why do you want to get married so desperately?"
"It's not desperation." The waiter brought their drinks, and he took a sip of his beer. "It's just something I've always known I wanted. It's like being complete—everything is empty unless there's a family to share it with."
"Ego," she observed, nodding. "Reflected glory. A wife, a big house and lots of little kiddies to carry on the great name."
He gave her a look of barely repressed distaste. "You sure have a sour way of looking at things. It just so happens I like kids. I always have. I grew up with a bunch of them, remember?"
Cassie remembered, and felt somewhat chastened as she imagined him playing big brother to a houseful of orphans.
"I like them when they're small and I like them when they're bigger," he told her. "I like teaching them things and watching them grow up. I'd make a good father," he finished confidently.
Cassie imagined that he would.
"What about you?" he asked. "Don't you ever think about having a family?"
"Not really." In fact, she had thought about it a lot when she was younger, but her own goals and ambitions had gotten in the way, and somehow, over the years, her romantic notions about fulfillment and procreation had lost their sheen. That seemed rather sad in a way. "I like my life the way it is."
"How old are you?"
“Too old for you."
“Pardon?"
"I'm almost thirty years old," she replied. "My childbearing years are spinning out like a clock in fast motion. And you should be saving your questions for someone who at least has a chance of giving the right answers."
He grinned ruefully and shook his head. "You don't cut a guy any slack at all, do you?"
Cassie merely smiled as her soup and his salad were served.
He watched her taste her soup. "What is that?"
"Vichyssoise," she explained. "It's kind of a cold potato soup."
"Like potato salad?"
She laughed. "Not exactly." She hesitated, then offered, "Would you like to taste it?"
"Are you allowed to do that in a place like this?"
Cassie's eyes sparkled as she pushed the bowl across the table to him. "Not really," she confided. "But in this case we'll make an exception."
Shane picked up his own spoon and tasted the soup cautiously. He looked surprised. "That's not bad. I think I'll have some."
He beckoned the waiter and ordered a bowl of vichyssoise and while he was waiting for it to be delivered, he finished his salad. Cassie watched him in amusement. Any doubts she'd had about his ability to conduct himself with ease and assurance in a social setting were completely erased, and she couldn't understand why he had led her to believe he was awkward about such things. Being with him was natural and unconstrained, his conversation was direct and effortless, and—except for the times when he was glaring at her with that familiar stubborn set to his jaw — he was fun to be with. A man with his kind of guileless charm should have had no difficulty at all getting a date.
Getting a wife, of course, was another matter entirely.
As the main course was served, he told entertaining stories about his adventures in Alaska and made occasional intriguing references to his early years growing up in group homes in Washington State. All of it was related with a touch of humor and not a trace of pathos, which Cassie found fascinating. Shane Bartlett appeared to be one of those rare people who could turn almost any situation to his advantage, merely by expecting the best to happen and allowing no room in his plans for failure.
"So, anyway," he said, "I didn't have anything else to spend my money on all those years, so I started putting it into oil. A little bit here, a little there. Next thing I knew I was a major holder in a company that was a lot bigger than I ever expected it to be. Shortly after that this big consortium came along and bought us out, and here I am."
Cassie shook her head slowly. "Amazing," she murmured.
"What? My Cinderella story?" He scraped the last of his baked potato from the skin.
"That," agreed Cassie, "and the fact that you've managed to finish a soup, salad, the biggest steak I've ever seen and all the trimmings without even stopping for breath. Where do you put it all?"
He grinned. "You know what they say about orphans: they're always hungry. Ready for dessert?"
Cassie groaned.
On a scale of one to ten, Shane had planned for this evening to be, at best, a three. So far the score had passed seven and was steadily climbing. It was, in fact, one of the nicest times he had ever had just having dinner with a woman, and Shane didn't really understand why. It had something to do with the fact that Cassie Averil was easy to talk to, which surprised him; even when he was irritated with her, he was always looking forward to what she would do or say next. She kept him thinking, and didn't let him get away with anything, something Shane couldn't help admiring her for. She was different from the women he had known, and he enjoyed the puzzle even if he didn't always enjoy the differences. If the women she fixed him up with were as interesting as she was, perhaps this whole business wouldn't be so difficult, after all.
"So, Cassie," he said, leaning back as the waiter began to clear the table. It was easier to call her Cassie when her hair was down. "How am I doing so far?"
Her eyes had a nice sparkle in the candlelight, and the edge of her smile was a little impish. Shane had never seen eyes so green before, nor had he realized what an attractive color that was.
"All right," she answered. "In fact, very nicely. I'm having a good time."
"Good. Then you can pay for the meal."
She laughed, and Shane liked that, too. He always felt he had scored a small victory when he made her laugh. All in all, he decided, she was an attractive woman— not his type, of course, but she did have a certain allure. He liked the way her hair brushed her shoulders and that dress made him forget he had always been attracted to more well-endowed women. She wore a locket necklace that rested just a fraction of an inch above the cleavage of her dress, and all night his eyes had been straying to that particular portion of her anatomy. More than once he had resisted the urge to reach across the table and take the locket in his fingers—and not because he was particularly interested in lockets, either. He supposed that was why women wore necklaces like that with low-cut gowns; to drive men crazy with wanting to touch.
"Have you ever been in love?" he asked impulsively.
She looked startled. "What a strange question."
"Not really. You're supposed to be handling my love life. I'd like to know what qualifications you have."
She looked slightly annoyed, but answered, "First of all, I've told you love is an ambiguous term. Secondly, of course, I've been in love—dozens of times."
Now he was curious. "And?"
"And what?" She gave a dismissing shrug. "That 'being in love' feeling is just a chemical reaction, a flare of so-called passion that burns itself out. It's not really important."
"What do you mean, it's not important? You don't expect me to marry someone I'm not in love with, do you?"
A look of mild exasperation mixed with puzzlement came into her eyes. "You're being inconsistent. Do you realize that? If you really believed all that romantic nonsense about instant passion and love sickness, you wouldn't have come to me to order a wife. You would have just waited around for the magic to strike, right? But you're sensible, just like I am. You know it takes more than chemistry to make a match."
Shane felt as though he should have an answer to that, and it disturbed him that he didn't. Fortunately the pastry cart arrived just then, so he didn't have to think about it for long. But he couldn't help wondering what it would take to make a woman like Cassie Averil believe in the power of passion.
After dinner they walked for a while in the city lights, and Shane was somewhat subdued. Cassie found his silence comfortable, just as the evening had been. Simple, unstrained, enjoyable. It occurred to her to wonder, briefly, whether she was responding solely to the pleasure of being out with a handsome man—he had, indeed, made heads turn in the restaurant—or whether it was Shane's company that had made the evening so memorable. She decided it was both.
He drove her home and walked her to her door. "So," he said as Cassie took out her keys, "do I get a final report?"
Cassie smiled to herself. The night had been so pleasant that she had almost forgotten the original purpose of the evening. "I would say... very good. A B plus."
"I guess you took off points for romantic gestures."
"Well, you can always work on those."
"I'll do that."
She inserted the key into the lock and turned to him. "I'll send you another profile form," she reminded him. "Fill it out as soon as possible."
"The truth is," he said, ignoring her, "it wasn't really a fair test. I mean, I knew up front it was only a make-believe date, and you didn't get to judge me on my best stuff."
Cassie hadn't realized until then how close he was standing, and there was an oddly thoughtful, almost mischievous glint in his eyes. "Like what?" she inquired a little suspiciously.
“Like this." He took her in his arms and kissed her.
If Cassie had to put the experience into words, she would have likened it to the time she had been playing in the surf at Galveston and had been caught off guard by a breaker that had crashed over her head and sent her sweeping to shore. It had been shocking, unexpected, and had taken her breath away and swept her along faster than she cared to go. But she was helpless against the impact—helpless and exhilarated.
Her pulse soared and her skin flared with fever as his warmth encircled her, strong hands cupping her shoulder blades and pressing her close. His kiss was sure and thorough, promising but not demanding, overwhelming in its pure sensuality. Her muscles weakened and her breath stopped and every nerve ending in her body responded to him with a tingling ache that left her senseless. Chemistry, she thought dizzily. Only chemistry...
The kiss ended slowly, and with the same thorough care with which it had begun. Long after he had lifted his face she could still taste him, still feel the slight scratchiness of his cheek against hers. She rested her hands against his arms for support and could feel his breath against her hair, his eyes upon her. She didn't look at him, because it took far longer than it should have to compose herself.
At last she put her hand against his chest and stepped away. She looked up at him and smiled. "Don't ever try to seduce a girl on the first date," she advised pleasantly. "It's bad form and shows you're in a hurry. I'll be in touch with you in a couple of days," she added as she opened the door. "Meanwhile, don't forget the form. Good night."
The last thing she saw was his startled expression, and then she closed the door and leaned against it heavily. Her legs were still trembling.
One thing was certain: Shane Bartlett didn't need any instructions in the fine art of the good-night kiss.
~
FIVE
The next day Cassie's eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from the contact lenses, and she couldn't get a thing done at work for thinking about Shane. Emma asked tactful, borderline businesslike questions about the "date," and Cassie suspected the other woman knew she was being evasive with her answers. But what could Cassie say? She wasn't even sure she knew what to think anymore.
Shane Bartlett was without doubt one of the most contradictory, complex and outrageous men she had ever met. He claimed to be uncomfortable on dates, yet he had flirted with her as naturally as he drew breath. Despite the fact that she had made the terms of the evening clear from the outset, he had somehow managed to turn it into a real date. Of course, he'd had no right to kiss her, but she hadn't exactly hit him over the head with her purse for trying, had she? And therein lay the problem. There was something about him—about simply being with him—that made Cassie feel like a woman, and she hadn't known that feeling for a long time. She was very much afraid of losing her objectivity.
She made a halfhearted effort to go through the files of some women Emma had recommended as possible matches for Shane Bartlett. But she couldn't really concentrate. Every time she brought up a mental picture of a woman in a file she imagined Shane kissing her. And every time she did that she grew more irritated with herself. She kept expecting Shane to call, or walk through the door, and the expectation was tinged with excitement, like that of a teenager waiting for an invitation to the prom. That irritated her even more.
She left the office early and arrived home disgruntled, snappish and thoroughly disgusted with herself. Fluffy had apparently used the cat door to explore the call of the wild, and the apartment was empty, which didn't improve her mood any.
"I don't know why I got a cat, anyway," she grumbled, bending to pick up the mail from the floor. "All she's good for is making me sneeze and running up the grocery bill."
The mail included several bills, an advertisement for life insurance and a postcard from her parents, who were vacationing on Saint Thomas. "Why would anyone want to go to Saint Thomas when they live in Florida?" she muttered ungraciously. "It's too hot there this time of year, anyway."
She was still staring with well-disguised envy at the picture of clear Caribbean waters and quaint red-roofed cottages when the doorbell rang. She thought it was just surprise that caused her pulse to jump, but when she walked quickly to the door she was half expecting—or perhaps hoping—to see Shane.
A man in a florist's cap stood there with a long white box in his arm. He checked the card. "Miss—" he looked at the card again "—Fluffy Averil?"
Cassie blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"I've got a delivery here for Miss Fluffy Averil," he insisted more assertively. "Will you sign?"
"Oh... sure." A little dazed, she initialed the form and accepted the box.
As soon as she closed the door, she tore off the card and opened it quickly. Across the top was scrawled, "A romantic gesture." And beneath it was written: "Dear Fluffy. I'm sorry I stepped on your tail. S."
Cassie opened the box. Inside were a dozen long-stemmed roses.
She laughed. She hugged the roses to her and laughed until her knees gave way and she sank to the floor. Then she started to sneeze, and that only made her laugh harder.
Cassie was also allergic to roses.
***
The weekend passed and Cassie used the time to good advantage by giving herself a stern lecture on the importance of maintaining her perspective. Shane Bartlett was sweet, entertaining and blatantly sensual; he was also stubborn, opinionated and more than a little chauvinistic. He was, in short, the best and the worst of all that was male, and he had employed her to find his match. It was imperative that she do so without allowing her personal impressions—good or bad— to cloud her judgment. More than her professional reputati
on was at stake; her very livelihood depended on her doing the best job of her life for Shane Bartlett.
On Monday she turned the other clients over to Emma and cloistered herself in her office, dedicating her full attention to Shane Bartlett. She wrote down everything she knew about him, cataloged the information and applied several standard psychological tests. The tests would be more accurate when his profile form arrived, but for now she had enough to begin with. By Wednesday it became obvious that the form wasn't going to arrive, and she squared her shoulders and intensified the search.
On Friday afternoon she rushed from her office, dropped a file on Emma's desk and exclaimed triumphantly. "Mindy Howard!"
Emma looked dubious. "For Mr. Bartlett?"
"Of course! She's new money—her family was strictly blue-collar until her mother remarried, so she's got all those down-to-earth values Shane thinks are so important. She just turned twenty-three, and I happen to know her mother wants her to get married in the worst way...."
"I don't know." A small ridge of concern appeared between Emma's brows. "We haven't had much luck with her in the past. She seems a little.. .eager to me."
"That's because she's young," Cassie replied airily. "All young people are eager. And on my time schedule, eagerness is a plus. She still has blond hair, doesn't she? Get her on the phone and see. And if she doesn't," Cassie added, hurrying back to her office, "tell her to get to the beauty parlor this afternoon. I'm going to call Shane."
She paused at the door and lifted her crossed fingers. "This could be it, Emma. We're on our way!"
She didn't notice that Emma didn't share her enthusiasm. Too much was at stake for Cassie to risk pessimism now.
***
"Are you sure?" Jack asked. "We could fly up to Vegas in my plane, gamble the night away and be back by tomorrow afternoon."
"I'm sure," Shane said into his mobile phone as he picked up a tennis ball, rolled it along the ground and watched as the puppy skittered around the slick surface of the pool trying to catch it. "I don't feel like going anywhere this weekend. Besides, what would I do with the dog?"
