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The Matchmaker's Plan
Karen Toller Whittenburg


Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Get me a date with a wonderful mate!Cupid's Plan Goes Awry When Her Arrows Hit Home…For once, intrepid matchmaker Ainsley Danville Dunbar doesn't know how to proceed. There's instant chemistry between her brother Matt and her new friend Peyton O'Reilly, but Ainsley sees no reason to break out the champagne just yet.Their hasty romance was a one-night fling–nobody wants to say, "I do." Still, Ainsley's not about to give up.Especially after Peyton lets her in on a little secret…







“Peyton,” Matt said, her name a stiff, stern greeting.

She stood there, her coat unbuttoned and splotched from the rain, a Christmas plaid scarf hanging listlessly from her collar. She appeared pale, hesitant, as if she’d rather be anywhere else. The sudden unwitting thrill of seeing her so unexpectedly faded as her eyes met his and her expression turned distant and cool. He missed the fire of her arguments, the zeal she’d thrown at him for no better reason than she enjoyed their debates. But since the night at the beach house, she’d avoided him.

“Matt,” she returned evenly, waiting in the doorway of his office for an invitation she seemed to know he didn’t want to extend. “Do you have a minute?”

“Actually, no.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m due in Providence in an hour and should already be on my way. Why don’t you talk to Jessica about whatever’s on your mind and she can fill me in later.”

“I could do that, but I don’t really think you want her to be the first to know that we’re…”

The unuttered word slammed into him. A sucker punch. “Come in,” he told her. “Close the door.”


The Matchmaker’s Plan

Karen Toller Whittenburg






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Karen Toller Whittenburg credits her love of reading with inspiring her writing career. She enjoys fiction in every form, but romance continues to hold a special place for her. As a teenager she spent long, lovely hours falling in love with Emilie Loring’s heroines, falling in love with every hero and participating in every adventure. It’s no wonder she always dreamed of being a romance writer. Karen lives in Oklahoma and divides her time between writing and running a household, both full-time and fulfilling careers.




Books by Karen Toller Whittenburg


HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

822—LAST-MINUTE MARRIAGE

877—HIS SHOTGUN PROPOSAL † (#litres_trial_promo)

910—THE C.E.O.’S UNPLANNED PROPOSAL * (#litres_trial_promo)

914—THE PLAYBOY’S OFFICE ROMANCE * (#litres_trial_promo)

919—THE BLACKSHEEP’S ARRANGED MARRIAGE * (#litres_trial_promo)

1006—THE MATCHMAKER’S APPRENTICE †† (#litres_trial_promo)

1010—THE MATCHMAKER’S SISTER †† (#litres_trial_promo)




MEMO


TO: Jessica Martin-Kingsley

Staff Supervisor and Volunteer Liaison

FROM: Matthew Danville

CEO, Danville Foundation

SUBJECT: Confidential

Jessica—

In regard to your latest memo to me, referencing Peyton O’Reilly and next spring’s Black-and-White Ball charity event, let me remind you that Ms. O’Reilly is a volunteer and cannot be reprimanded for (as you phrased it) “…irritating the oysters out of everyone with whom she comes into contact.”

As I’m sure you recall, she was put in charge of the B&W fund-raiser at your suggestion and despite my (and a few other board members’) reservations about allowing someone so new to take charge of such an important fund-raising event. However, Ms. O’Reilly was eager to take on the challenge, campaigned enthusiastically for the task, and was approved (on a vote of 5–4) as the B&W event chairperson. As she has (to date) done nothing either unethical or illegal, I see no recourse but to allow her to continue in this voluntary position.

In future, perhaps you will see the wisdom of giving new volunteers ample time to demonstrate the full extent of their irritation factor before putting them in a position from which they can (for several long months) drive our oysters insane.




Contents


Chapter One (#u0a61a2dd-5230-5ae5-877d-8b8b8a6e33af)

Chapter Two (#u2ac7420e-ae7d-5c16-97f1-d5d6bb855adf)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


There was ample reason for Matthew Danville to be having a fabulous time.

Ainsley, his baby sister, had just been married in a beautiful ceremony; his best friend, Dr. Ivan Donovan, had just become his brother-in-law; the reception—planned perfectly to the nth degree by his other sister, Miranda—was off to a rollicking good start; his parents, Charles and Linney, were home for the occasion and focused—for once—on the happiness of their children. Everything was just as it should be in the world of the Danvilles.

And that’s the way he kept trying to think of it.

Even if there was no escaping the reality that Ainsley was married, Miranda was engaged, and the world Matt had always counted on was changing.

In a few hours, Ainsley would leave with Ivan for a two-week honeymoon in Italy, and when she returned, it wouldn’t be to Danfair. She’d be living in Providence with Ivan. She’d call another place home, and when she came to Danfair, it would be only as a visitor. A few hours here or there. Possibly an overnight on special occasions. But then she’d leave again, returning to her own home. Not far from Newport and the famous cliffs, mile-wise, but still a whole other life away. Matt couldn’t quite get his mind around that.

Home without Ainsley.

Miranda would marry Nate Shepard and leave, too. She was newly engaged and no wedding date had been set as yet—at least as far as Matt knew—but he didn’t think it would be long. Probably by spring, Danfair would be home only to him and Andrew, Ainsley’s twin, born an hour before her. A place where two brothers, both bachelors, slept and ate and kept their clothes. They’d manage just fine, of course. There would always be other people around; a rotating staff of immigrants and foreign students sponsored by the Danville Foundation was a fixture at Danfair. A fairly constant stream of gardeners, landscapers and maintenance crews were on the estate at any given moment, as well. And guests. Miranda and Ainsley would no doubt visit frequently, if for no better reason than to make sure he and Andrew adequately missed them.

But it wouldn’t be the same. The magnificent mansion that had been both refuge and playground, shelter and security for the four of them growing up would become strangely quiet and empty.

With the girls married and all of them well into adulthood, Matt suspected his parents might curtail their occasional visits home to Danfair to once or twice a year. Over the course of his life, he’d seen them spend less and less time in the States and more and more in other countries, fulfilling their mission of philanthropy. They carried out the work of the Foundation, whatever the personal cost, offering help and hope to children of other cultures while leaving their own children to grow up—for the most part—on their own. Charles and Linney’s extended absences had turned their offspring into virtual orphans, supervised but not parented, protected but not policed. It had made for a strange sort of freedom, a childhood Matt had always considered a rather extraordinary gift. The four of them had formed an odd little family of children and had turned their home into a playhouse where they’d lived, quite happily, without much adult interference.

Matt was proud to take his share of credit for the fact that they’d all turned out to be good, upstanding citizens. It had been his responsibility, after all, to set the example. He couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been conscious of being the oldest, the pathfinder, the first in a new generation of Danvilles. He was the firstborn son of the firstborn son and he’d been given the name Jonathan, as had all firstborn sons before him. The middle name varied from one generation to the next. His happened to be Matthew, his father’s was Charles. But it was the inherited “Jonathan” that designated him as the one who would continue the work of the family foundation. He’d been born to responsibility, to be the role model not only for his younger brother and sisters, but for his cousins and for the next generation, too. It wasn’t a job he’d applied for or particularly wanted, but it was his job, nonetheless.

“I’m thinking of sending you a memo,” the pretty woman in his arms said with a laugh. “If only to get your attention.”

And Matt returned to the pleasure at hand—dancing with Jessica Martin-Kingsley. “You already have my attention, Jessica.” Which was true enough. She was a woman accustomed to getting whatever she wanted—the only child of wealthy parents who doted on her and made generous donations to the Danville Foundation at her request, Jessica was both a tremendous asset to the work of the Foundation and an attractive nuisance—and it was becoming transparently apparent that she wanted Matt, even though she was not only not what he wanted, but married besides. “There probably isn’t a man in the room who wouldn’t love to be in my place at this very moment. Including your husband.”

Her smile was one of pretty calculation. “You’re a gentleman, Matthew.” She always called him Matthew, never Matt. “A liar, but a gentleman. Your attention has wandered ever since this evening began—I’ve been watching you—and if I can’t distract you, then there must be something momentous on your mind. Please tell me you’re not still worrying about the Black-and-White Ball. I feel just awful about that entire situation.”

So did he, but he wasn’t about to soothe her conscience over it. “Why would I be worried?” He turned her expertly, smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Especially tonight when my thoughts are a very long way from anything having to do with the Foundation.”

Her laughter was softly acerbic. “Your thoughts are never far from the Foundation, Matthew. Whatever you may pretend.”

He caught a shimmer of white in his peripheral vision a second before his elbow was bumped once and then—lest he think it an accident—again. Baby to his rescue.

“Oops!” Ainsley said brightly. “Guess I wasn’t looking where we were going.” Her smile encompassed Jessica, Matt and her own current dance partner, their cousin, Scott. “Matt! What a happy coincidence. You’re just the brother I wanted to dance with next.” And as smooth as cream, she negotiated a change of partners. Scott swept Jessica away before she quite realized the old switcheroo, and Matt was left holding the bride.

“Nicely done, Baby,” he said, using her nickname and knowing how very much he would miss his little sister. “Were you worried that I couldn’t stave off Ms. Martin-Kingsley’s advances all by myself?”

Ainsley, gorgeous in her splashy beaded silk wedding gown, radiant in her happiness, gave him an arch look. “I knew you could. I was worried you wouldn’t. Big difference. But mainly I wanted to dance with my big brother.”

Matt took that at face value, although she had already danced with him twice. Knowing Ainsley, he suspected there was another explanation, a hidden agenda which would be revealed in a minute or two if he simply waited her out. Or if he asked pertinent questions. It didn’t really matter which course he chose, because Ainsley was never especially good at keeping her own counsel. “Are you having a good time?” he asked, knowing the answer, wanting only to see her face light up with it again.

“Best time ever,” she replied, dimples framing her smile. “But ask me tomorrow. The wedding night might turn out to be the best time I’ve ever had. Then again, the honeymoon is going to last two whole weeks and that could be the best. And after that, I get to live with Ivan and sleep with him every night and that could be the absolute best time ever. You never know.”

“More information than a brother needs…except for the fact that you’re happy. Ivan had better make sure you stay that way.”

“He makes me happy just by breathing,” she said, and the conviction in her voice made Matt almost envious.

He gave her a hug and began moving toward the edge of the dance floor as the song neared its conclusion, but Ainsley, in a clever countermove, managed to alter their direction and bumped him, a little forcefully, into another tuxedoed back. Her devious plan, Matt thought, was revealed. He’d suspected for some time that Ainsley, a matchmaker’s apprentice with two successful matches under her belt, had a specific someone in mind for him and had been trying to find a good opportunity to set him up with what she referred to as an introduction of possibilities. And here was the proof, standing right in front of him when he turned around. Peyton O’Reilly, possibly the most impossible woman of his acquaintance.

“Oops!” Ainsley said brightly, but this time her smile encircled only one. “Ivan! What a happy coincidence! You’re exactly the husband I wanted to dance with next.”

Somehow, in the lull between the end of one song and the start of another, Ainsley pulled another switcheroo and danced off with her new husband, giving Matt a little wave of encouragement and leaving him with two unappealing options. Walk away from Peyton or stay and dance with her. He didn’t want to do the latter but, as Jessica had accused, he was a gentleman. A liar, perhaps, on occasion. But still a gentleman. “Peyton,” he said with a polished warmth, “you look lovely tonight. Thank you for coming.”

Her smile was equally noncommittal. “Thank you for the invitation.”

An invitation, she knew, of course, hadn’t come from him. She and Ainsley were friends, worked together as volunteers at the new pediatric center. She knew, too—or believed she knew, at any rate—that if the decision had been left to him, she wouldn’t have received an invitation to the wedding at all. From the moment they’d met, Matt had somehow managed to rub Ms. O’Reilly the wrong way. And vice versa. But Ainsley refused to believe the two of them couldn’t be friends, that the sparks between them weren’t indicative of romantic possibilities, and Matt felt certain that was why she’d arranged this devious and awkward introduction of possibilities moment on the dance floor. Consequently, here he stood, face-to-face with Peyton, friction already established in the course of two overly polite sentences and not a possibility of rescue in sight. But this was Ainsley’s wedding reception. A happy occasion. He could spend ten minutes being nice to Peyton O’Reilly.

“Dance with me?” he asked, because it seemed the obvious thing to say. “This is my favorite song.”

Her eyebrows went up. The corners of her mouth lifted. And his lips moved upward in unbidden response. Which seemed the effect she consistently had on him. One minute she was the most exasperating, irritating woman he knew, and the next minute he got all tangled up in her smile. Peyton wasn’t a particularly beautiful woman, but there was something about her long, dusky hair, not quite black, not entirely brown, that made a man think it would feel thick and luxurious tangled in his hands. There was a trusting innocence in her hazel eyes that had a man standing taller before he even knew why. And her smile, as wide and warm and winsome as an early spring, got under a man’s skin before he could recall exactly why he was upset with her.

“Well, then,” she said in that soft Louisiana drawl that played so charmingly against the clipped New England accents all around them. “If it’s your favorite song, I don’t see how I can refuse.”

She moved into his arms easily and fit there as if she belonged. Which surprised him. He’d thought—if he’d thought about it at all—that the two of them, in close quarters, would be all odd angles and awkward adjustments, their bodies at the same cross-purpose as their personalities. Instead, it felt effortless to hold her, and more pleasurable than he would ever have imagined. She smelled fresh, clean, as if she’d been dipped in dew and dried in the morning sun. Her body swayed against his—not too close, but close enough—and he was aware—very aware—of her curvy, womanly physique. This was no pencil-thin, reed-slim female he held. Peyton was full breasted and nicely filled out, and if not exactly voluptuous, she was certainly well proportioned. A subtle and seductive response welled inside him and Matt reluctantly recognized it for what it was—sexual attraction. A sizzle beneath the surface. A spark waiting to be struck.

Okay, so he would give Ainsley credit for having picked up on something he’d missed. But this spark of attraction was going nowhere. He didn’t especially want to set himself ablaze, for one thing, and even if he did, he felt certain Peyton would stomp the spark out before it ever had a chance to catch fire.

“I’m really going to miss working with Ainsley at the pediatric center,” she said, destroying his moment of fantasy with her stilted, studied remark.

“She’s only going to Italy for two weeks, you know. She will be back.”

“Well, yes, but it won’t be the same, will it?”

He drew back slightly, kept dancing as he frowned down at her. “Because she’s married?”

Peyton blinked, then she laughed. Just a little gurgle of amusement in her throat, but still a laugh that wrapped its warmth around him like the hug of an old friend. “No,” she replied, drawing the syllable out long and low. “Because she won’t be volunteering at the center anymore.”

This was news to him. “Why not?”

“What she told me is that she’s getting so many clients, she has to curtail some of her volunteer hours.”

“Clients?” He repeated before he thought. “She has too many clients?”

Peyton drew back, returned his frown. “What? You didn’t think she was good at her job?”

“Ainsley is a match…” He bit back the rest of the word with a snap. He didn’t go around telling people his sister was a matchmaker’s apprentice, that she actually believed she could kindle romance simply by putting two people in proximity and waiting for the possibilities to erupt. Luckily, Ainsley didn’t go around telling people, either. Ilsa Fairchild Braddock, the founder of IF Enterprises, an elite matchmaking service, was wise enough—thank goodness—to insist upon discretion. Except, of course, that discretion had never been Ainsley’s strong suit and there seemed to be quite a number of people who knew that IF Enterprises had more to do with personal relationships than public relations. Still, he found himself hoping, rather fervently, that Peyton wasn’t privy to that particular information, that she didn’t suspect Ainsley wanted to set up a match between the two of them. “Ainsley is a match for whatever she sets her mind to,” he said, correcting his slip of the tongue. “I’m just a little surprised she told you she would be doing less volunteering before she told me.”

He saw the warmth recede in her eyes, knew he’d offended her in some inexplicable and mysterious way.

“Ainsley’s been a good friend to me ever since I moved to Rhode Island earlier this year,” Peyton explained in a stiffly neutral tone. “We talk about a lot of things and I’m absolutely certain she didn’t intend for you to feel slighted because she told me before she told you.”

“I don’t feel slighted. Only a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Oh, perhaps I misunderstood.”

It was clear from her tone she didn’t think so, and Matt had to wonder how his conversations with Peyton turned into these ridiculous and exaggerated attempts not to offend each other. Resulting in greater offense than if they’d either one meant to offend in the first place. “I’m sure she will tell me,” he said. “When she thinks of it.”

“Knowing Ainsley, I imagine she thinks she already told you.”

Which was almost certainly true—Ainsley went through life like a sunbeam, making the world a brighter place wherever she happened to alight, blissfully unaware of practical matters—but somehow it annoyed him that Peyton knew his sister so well. “Perhaps she does,” he answered, his voice sounding as stilted as hers.

For a moment—the space of five, maybe six heartbeats—Peyton drifted in his arms like a summer cloud, her steps perfectly matched to his, her body effortlessly responding to the slightest nuance of his lead. Matt marveled again at the graceful ease with which they danced together, wondered how the action could be so uncomplicated and their conversation so problematic.

“I met your mother and father.” The sentence came out sounding a little desperate, as if she’d searched long and hard to think of something unexceptionable to say. “They’re remarkable people.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “They are.”

“You must be so proud to be their son.”

“Yes, I am.” And that was about as far as that conversational line could go. He couldn’t very well return the compliment, as he’d met her parents and found them unremarkable except for their great fascination with their new money and status. Peyton didn’t seem to share their attitude, but then that was just an impression. Based on little more than observation and, of course, on frequent and somewhat heated exchanges of opinion about allowing her creative ideas—and she had many of them—to run full steam ahead, regardless of who or what got bulldozed along the way. Peyton demonstrated little patience for protocol and procedure, and a decided disdain for tradition. She believed fiercely—he knew this from painful experience—that raising the funding for a project was more important than coddling personalities, and she’d proved willing to butt heads with anyone who tried to derail her parade. That anyone being, lately and most often, him.

“Miranda did a great job of putting this event together,” she ventured in her next conversational gambit. “What a great idea to have it here at the pediatric center so some of Dr. Donovan’s patients could enjoy the celebration.”

“Yes,” he agreed, then deciding he could expend a little more effort, added, “Having the reception here was actually Ainsley’s inspiration. Luckily, Miranda didn’t murder her for changing her mind at the very last minute.”

The fact that he’d volunteered more than one syllable seemed to startle Peyton and she made no response. Matt felt frustrated with her and with the nagging pleasure he experienced being close to her and holding her in his arms. Since taking the reins of the Black-and-White Ball fund-raising committee, she’d caused him nothing but headaches. In his office, she found it easy to tackle his opinion that sometimes the long way around a problem was the right way. In committee meetings, she had no problem at all finding the words to challenge his position. But put the two of them together in a social setting and—wham!—nothing but uninspired sentences and stuttering attempts at conversation.

Where was the passion she waved like a red flag the very second he tried to advise or caution her? But even as the question crossed his mind, he knew. It was here, radiating between their bodies, conducting a conversation all its own, an uninvited guest who seemed intent on making a scene.

And, Matt realized suddenly, she was as aware of the underlying attraction and its accompanying tension as he was…and just as determined not to acknowledge it.

“I met Miranda’s fiancé earlier,” Peyton said in yet another attempt to pretend she was unaware of any undertones. “His older set of twins attend the same private school as my sister, Scarlett. She’s a little older than they are, I think.”

Matt couldn’t help himself. As he realized she was fighting an unwelcome attraction to him, he began to see everything about her in a new light. The spark Ainsley had recognized, and hoped to fan into a romantic blaze, was mutual and it explained a lot. Not the least being his instant and rather keen fascination with the sensual curve of her lips and the abrupt and rather defensive tilt of her chin.

He tried a smile, and immediately the sparkle leaped back into her eyes and the sizzle streaked through him, as startling as a lightning strike. Interesting. “Do you have any brothers? More than one sister?” he asked, as much to put a little distance between himself and those thoughts as to keep up his end of the conversation.

“No, just Scarlett. Some days she makes me wish I had at least one more sibling to help keep her corralled.”

“Is ‘keeping her corralled’ your responsibility?”

Her gaze flashed up to his, flitted away. “My parents haven’t always been…accessible. They worked many long hours at the restaurant before it turned into a franchise. The restaurant chain is one of those so-called overnight success stories that took years of hard work to make happen. Taking care of Scarlett sort of naturally fell to me.”

“We have that in common then.”

“What?”

“I took care of my younger siblings, too.”

“You did?”

He didn’t think she needed to sound quite so astonished. “I did.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm? What does that mean?”

She moistened her lips, and it occurred to him she was, perhaps, a little intimidated. Which should have made him feel he had the advantage, but didn’t. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she answered, “except, maybe, that you don’t seem like the nurturing type.”

“What type do I seem like?”

Her smile flashed unexpectedly and the sizzle zapped him again. “The type who likes to…”

But whatever she planned to say faded as something across the room caught and held her attention. She couldn’t have glanced away for more than a second or two, but her tension was instantaneous and rippled from her body into his, and when her gaze returned to him, there was anger in her eyes.

“Matt,” she said, “I need your help. Please don’t ask any questions, just play along with whatever I say. Please. I wouldn’t ask you, except…”

Except he was the only hero handy. Intrigued, he nodded. “You want to see if I’m the type of guy who will help a lady in distress.”

She didn’t offer even a frown in reply, just grabbed his hand and led him around and past the other couples on the dance floor, pausing briefly when they reached the edge. “This is probably going to sound insane to you, but it’s the only way to deal with my mother. Please believe me.”

If he’d been tempted to discount the seriousness of her request, her grip on his hand would have weighted it in her favor. He’d be lucky if he could wiggle his fingers tomorrow. Something had tipped her temper into the red, and the hesitant conversationalist of a few minutes ago had vanished, replaced by this woman with an agenda.

“Mother. Daddy.” She greeted her parents in a tone delicate with respect, yet steely with impatience. “You know Matthew Danville, of course.”

Rick O’Reilly, medium height, medium weight, over-the-top personality, was quick with a handshake, quicker with a smile. “Matt, good to see you, son. Great party. Good eats. Some pretty important guests, too.” He waggled a pair of caterpillar eyebrows. “The wife’s been trying to get up close and personal with that television-star fella. You know, the soap opera guy. Between us men, I don’t see what he’s got that we don’t, but, hey, there’s no understanding women to begin with. Know what I mean?”

“Richard, honestly…” There was nothing medium or mediocre about Connie O’Reilly. If she had ever been her husband’s counterpart, she’d since become splendidly sophisticated. Everything about her was studied and deliberate, stylish and expensive, gracious but somehow calculating. Matt couldn’t decide if she expected him to shake her hand or kiss it. “It was such a lovely wedding, Matthew. Rick and I are thrilled to have been invited.”

“We’re thrilled you could come,” he said, offering her not a handshake or a kiss on the hand, but his best the-Danville-Foundation-appreciates-your-contribution smile with a slight inclination of the head. Ainsley called the gesture his bow to the demigods who poured dollars into the work of the Foundation and expected royal treatment—at least—in return. The O’Reillys qualified on both counts. “Celebrations would be meaningless without friends like you to share in our happiness.”

Which was neither true nor his personal opinion, but was what he said because he represented the Danville Foundation and because that’s what people like the O’Reillys wanted to hear. He’d learned early that being a liar and a gentleman was his birthright, bought and paid for with stolen gold by his ancestor, Black Dan, the pirate. So Matt lied, and he did it well, because no one ever considered that his story might not be the truth.

“That’s so sweet of you to say,” Connie replied. “We’ve been simply overwhelmed at the warm welcome we’ve received here in Newport. Especially after hearing about that famous New England aloofness all these years.”

“Aloofness-spoofness.” Rick grinned broadly. “Y’all just promote that notion to keep out the riffraff. I’ve got your Yankee number.”

“I believe you do.” Matt felt a distinct liking for the older man and his what-you-see-is-what-you-get manners. It took a tough character to build a fortune with his bare hands, and Rick O’Reilly had earned the pride he wore as if it were the Congressional Medal of Honor. Matt envied him that privilege.

“I thought I saw Scarlett talking to you,” Peyton said, her voice perfectly cordial, the grip she still had on Matt’s hand distinctly impatient. “Did she leave?”

Mother and daughter exchanged a look long on subtext and riddled with tension, but painfully civil. “Yes, she did. Covington wanted to take her for a moonlight drive.”

Peyton closed her eyes for a moment, took a slow breath. “And you gave her permission?”

“Well, of course,” Connie answered, her Southern smile skimming Peyton to settle on Matt. “Young people these days are always off on their own adventures, you know. And such a nice group of young men and women have included our Scarlett in their number. Richard and I were just talking about how easily she fits in here. But that’s Scarlett for you, never meets a stranger.”

“Did she leave in a group?” Peyton persisted. “Or just with him?”

Connie was clearly uncomfortable having this discussion in front of Matt. As, perhaps, Peyton had intended. “I trust Covington completely, Peyton. He’s a lovely boy, as I’m sure Matthew would be happy to tell you.”

Matt did not want to get in the middle of this. Not even a little.

As if sensing retreat, Peyton pressed her fingers hard into his, asking him to stay, even as she continued the visual wrestling match with her mother.

Connie didn’t yield. “You know, Matthew, I would dearly love to meet Nick Shepard. If I promise not to be so gauche as to ask for his autograph, would you, perhaps, introduce me? I understand your sister, Miranda, is engaged to his brother. Won’t that be nice, having a genuine celebrity in the family?”

A way out. A convenient segue from this family situation to less demanding company.

Matt was ready to take the opportunity offered, but suddenly, Peyton was all smiles, her voice sifting accent and assent in a slow, sweet deception. “Oh, Mother, I did not bring Matthew over here so you could steal him away from me.” Her smile shifted to him and he nearly dropped to his knees under its calculating charm. “Not after he’s just asked me to take a stroll in the garden with him. He insisted I tell you where I’d be.” Her hand slipped up his arm and settled in the crook of his elbow. “So you wouldn’t worry. Isn’t he simply the most thoughtful thing you ever laid eyes on?”

If she fluttered her eyelashes, he was out of there. But in the brief moment her gaze locked onto his, he saw only a mute appeal for him to play along. And, what the hell. This was better than the way she usually treated him. “I did suggest a moonlight stroll,” he lied, smiling down at her before he turned back to her father, man-to-man being the logical next step in this farce. “I promise I’ll bring your daughter back with roses in her cheeks,” he added, thinking that the autumn air would probably give her goose bumps as well. But then, considering that the pediatric center didn’t actually have a garden yet—it was still under construction—they wouldn’t be strolling in it long enough to feel the nip.

“See that you do.” Rick O’Reilly had already lost interest, his attention wandering to a waiter who was passing by with a tray of drinks. “You want something else to drink, Mother?”

Peyton had Matt away and out the front door before he quite knew he was on the move. “Thank you,” she said in a rush when they hit the open air. “I’m so sorry. Really, really sorry. But there wasn’t much time and I couldn’t think of a better idea. And…well, I needed you as a distraction.”

From hero to distraction in the space of a sentence. “That certainly takes the wind out of my sails,” he said. “I thought you were having a change of heart.”

“No, you didn’t.” Forehead creased, expression troubled, Peyton paced away from him, her emerald gown sashaying across the curve of her hips, rippling around her ankles. The evening dress was virtually backless, exposing an expanse of sleek, creamy skin to the cool October night, and he wondered if he should offer her his jacket.

But she seemed oblivious to the cold as she studied the parking lot, turned, and paced back to where he waited. “Where would a lovely young man with more car than sense take a gullible young girl with a propensity for trouble on Halloween night?”

“Your sister?”

“She would be the gullible young girl.”

“And Covington Locke?”

“He would be the lovely young man.”

“And you think they’ll get into trouble?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Even if it wasn’t Halloween.”

“So why did your parents let her go?”

The other eyebrow rose. This didn’t require much imagination, really. Parents who equated wealth and privilege with character and who wanted their daughter to be accepted. Two teenagers. A car. Miles of secluded beach. “Maybe they’re in a group,” he suggested, as if that would keep trouble at bay.

“I’m going after her.” Determination thrummed through the words, her nod was mere confirmation. “Tell me the top ten list of teenage hideouts,” she said. “Starting with the one you think Covington would be most likely to hit first. And then tell me how to get there.”

“We’d be here all night and halfway into tomorrow. Rhode Island has over four hundred miles of coastline, much of it easily accessible and pretty secluded at night. And that’s not even counting any number of inland places they might have gone.”

“Well, isn’t there a public curfew or something?”

This time his eyebrow lifted. “Weren’t you a teenager once?”

She sighed. “Scarlett was my curfew. She kept me from getting into who knows what kind of trouble. I’m not doing a very good job at returning the favor.”

“Maybe it’s not your job.”

“I thought you took care of your younger siblings.”

“I did. Our parents were away more than they were home.”

“And if it was your teenage sister out there, what would you do?”

“Go after her.”

She stood there, looking out into the dark as if she could will her sister back to the party inside, rubbing her arms against the chill and daring him without words to explain why she should not do what he’d just admitted he would.

But this was different. Her parents, however foolish they might be, were very much in the picture and bore the responsibility if—and in Matt’s mind that was a fairly big if—Scarlett did choose to get into trouble. This was not Peyton’s battle, although he could tell she was at war over it. “Let’s go back inside,” he suggested because he could see she was cold and because, bottom line, this was none of his business and not his problem. “You’re cold.”

“You’re wrong, Matt.” And he knew she wasn’t referring to the temperature.

“I can see you shivering,” he said anyway.

Her gaze came back to him, calling his bluff. “I have to try. My parents are who they are, but Scarlett shouldn’t have to pay for their mistakes…or mine. She’s only fifteen. He’s twenty. I can see the danger in that equation, even if my mother chooses not to.”

“I thought he was closer to her age.”

“Well, he isn’t. And I’m not convinced he’s such a lovely young man, either. Now, if you were Covington, where would you go on a moonlight drive?”

Matt hated that he allowed Peyton to consistently back him into a corner no gentleman could gracefully get out of. “I’ll take you,” he said. “But you have to get a coat. And I can’t guarantee we’ll find them.”

She walked up to him, close enough for him to catch the scent of some exotic perfume, close enough for him to see a familiar fire in her eyes. “I wasn’t asking you to take me. All I’m asking for is a general direction.”

At that moment, he wanted to shake her only slightly less than he wanted to kiss her. He wasn’t stupid enough to do either, so he reached for her arm, felt the chill on her and the rocket flash of heat that sliced under his skin and shot like fire up through his veins. “You’ll be lost before you get anywhere near those kids,” he said a little more roughly than he intended. “I said I’d take you and I will.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is Ainsley’s wedding reception. You can’t go missing. And it’s totally unnecessary. Scarlett is my sister. I’ll find her. I never meant for you to get involved.”

“Get your coat,” Matt growled, and opening the door, he escorted her—a little forcefully—inside. “And please, don’t make a scene. This is, after all, a happy occasion.”

She looked up at him and a dual fire of anger and desire burned between them. Passion—that uninvited, unacknowledged guest—danced in the flames. “Thank you,” she replied tightly, “but I don’t need—”

“—my help,” he finished for her. “I understand. Now, get your coat.”

She stood her ground for a moment, but then she turned abruptly and walked away, offering him a long view of her bare back and the taut, seductive sway of her hips. He knew, absolutely, there was no seduction in her thoughts—if he was even still in her thoughts—and that she’d be horrified if she could read his. Hell, he felt horrified enough for both of them. And furious that he’d let himself get involved in her problems. He should be out there dancing with one or the other of his sisters…or any number of other beautiful, and agreeable, partners.

But even as he tried to convince himself he was unhappy at this unexpected turn of events, he knew it was a lie. Peyton had offered him exactly what he wanted—an opportunity to escape the happiness that surrounded and threatened to suffocate him. He adored Ainsley, was truly glad she’d married his best friend. He was happy that Miranda had found Nate. He always felt pleased to see his parents. And yet, he never trusted happiness, had never quite managed to befriend it. Too much of a good thing was still too much, and the truth was, he’d prefer a futile search in the dark with a woman he barely knew than to stay and witness the changes that were already in motion for the women he loved.

It wasn’t right. Or fair. Or particularly mature. But there it was. And, as much as he hated having to admit it even to himself, Matt knew that if Peyton hadn’t provided this chance to escape, he would simply have found another excuse.

“Something to drink, Mr. Danville?”

He shook his head at the waiter, then gauging Peyton’s progress in retrieving her coat, he slipped to the bar and snagged a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. However the rest of this evening turned out, he figured that somewhere in the night, he was going to need a drink.

AINSLEY LOOPED her arms around Ivan’s neck and smiled at him as they danced, swaying in one place, wrapped in the light of the day’s happiness. “Well, Mrs. Donovan, you’re looking especially pleased with yourself,” he said. “That secretive little smile wouldn’t have anything to do with your big brother’s mysterious disappearance, would it?”

“Now, why would I be happy that Matt walked out on my wedding reception and hasn’t returned?” But she was happy. Happy to be Ivan’s wife. Happy that Matt and Peyton had left together. Happy to think her impulsive introduction of possibilities had taken effect so quickly. She hadn’t expected that. Not at all. But it did add an extra dollop to her happiness level, which was spilling over as it was. “He didn’t even say goodbye to me.”

“I imagine he feels there’ll be opportunities for goodbyes tomorrow at the family brunch.” Ivan leaned in, pressed his cheek against her hair. “It is my personal opinion that right now you’re ecstatic because he left with Peyton O’Reilly more than an hour ago and we haven’t seen either of them since. I’d say you’re thinking you’ve successfully introduced Matt to the possibility that he has met his match in Peyton.”

She drew back to caution him. “Shh, Ivan. Talking about it could jinx it. Just because they left together tonight doesn’t mean we can call my matchmaking a success.” She offered up a conspiratorial smile. “Although I’m feeling very optimistic. I’ve known for ages that if the two of them were ever alone together long enough, they’d figure out there was a reason their discussions are so passionate.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been playing matchmaker at our wedding, Mrs. Donovan. Couldn’t you take the day off?”

She feigned an expression of grievous resignation. “You’ll simply have to get used to it, Ivan. A matchmaker’s lot in life is to find opportunities wherever and whenever they present themselves. It’s a full-time job, especially for an apprentice matchmaker like me.”

“You are taking two weeks off for our honeymoon, though, right? No matchmaking will be taking place in Italy.”

She lifted her shoulders in a dainty shrug. “I can’t promise, Ivan, but I expect I’ll be too busy to think much about my career, especially with all the sightseeing and so on we’ll be doing.”

“I certainly intend to keep you busy with the so on part.”

She giggled, thrilled at the prospect of having his undivided attention for two entire weeks. “I bought a tour book called See Italy in a Weekend. But as creative as you and I are, I imagine we could squeeze all the highlights into half a day, don’t you?”

“I do,” he said, and whirled her around the dance floor, the bride and groom celebrating this one moment…and all the moments still to come.

“THEY’RE NOT HERE, either.” Matt swung the car around in a slow U-turn, allowing the beam from the headlights to sweep across the deserted park. Not another car in sight. No sign of two young people looking for trouble. No sign of anyone else at all. “And, frankly, I don’t know where else to look.”

She glanced at him in the semidarkness of the car’s interior, noting that his classically handsome features revealed no hint of the impatience she knew he must be feeling. But he’d insisted on driving, insisted on accompanying her, despite her insistence that it wasn’t necessary. And she wasn’t ready to give up. “Oh, come on, Matt. You must remember your misspent youth and the places you took girls when you were Covington’s age.”

“That was a long time ago, and my youth was never as misspent as you might think.”

She sighed. “Neither was mine. But Scarlett seems determined to more than make up for my prudence.”

“I, somehow, have trouble associating you with prudence at any stage of your life.”

“I’ve learned to speak my mind, if that’s what you mean. But just because I won’t allow you—or anyone else—to trample on my opinions, doesn’t mean I go out of my way to take foolish chances.”

“Oh,” he said, aggravating her with the arrogance of the single syllable.

“Oh, is right. We are talking about two different things and I’d be happy to argue my point, but I think it’s much more important to find my sister. Where did you take girls when you wanted to be alone with them?”

His jaw tightened and he looked out the window for a moment, uncomfortable with the question or the answer. She neither knew nor cared which. “It is possible, Peyton, that they’re at a club somewhere listening to a band and having a couple of beers.”

“She’s fifteen, Matt. Covington is twenty and should know better than to take her anywhere, especially where alcohol is served.”

He put the car in gear. “We’ll drive over to the Cape. When I wanted to be alone for any reason, I went to our beach house. The Lockes have one that’s two doors down from ours. I probably should have thought of checking there first.”

She was grateful—more, really, than she wanted to admit—that he was willing to help her. She was appreciative of his concern for her sister. But mostly, she was thankful that the night concealed the wistful hunger inside her, kept him from seeing in her eyes that she wished he were taking her to his beach house, that instead of searching futilely for her foolish sister, she could have just one chance to be foolish herself.

The thought itself was foolish. She knew that. But as they sped into the night, shut inside the sports car, she couldn’t help wondering what might happen if she could forget only for a little while about being responsible, about what was the right thing to do, and give in to the attraction that burned like a fever beneath her skin.

She glanced at Matt as the car approached the bridge that would take them over to Cape Cod. And she wondered if they didn’t find Scarlett at the Lockes’ Cape Cod house, would Matt, perhaps, suggest a stop at his beach house?

And what might happen if he did?




Chapter Two


Matt took off his topcoat, gave it a shake to discourage the snowflakes from settling into the wool and hung it on the coat tree in the outer office. “T.J.,” he said. “What’s wrong with the music?”

His student assistant and gofer during the morning hours looked up from a huge, open textbook with a dazed, historical-facts frown and listened to the piped-in sound for a few seconds. “I think it’s ‘Jingle Bells’,” he said.

“My point exactly.” Matt cocked his head, inviting T.J. to pay closer attention. “That is the same song I heard at least two dozen times yesterday and the day before and the day before that and the day before that. I’m telling you, there’s a virus or something in the airwaves.”

“Well, it’s Christmas,” practical T.J. pointed out as he presented Matt with a sheaf of message slips with one hand while holding his place in the textbook with the other. “If x equals the number of holiday tunes and y is the number of days between Thanksgiving and Christmas, then depending on how you want to calculate it, z is the number of times you’re going to hear ‘Jingle Bells’.”

“Z is about two thousand times too many.”

“Do you want me to cancel the Muzak service?”

“An excellent idea, T.J. Except that if x equals the number of people in this building who like ‘Jingle Bells’ and y equals the number who don’t, then z is the number of screams I’m going to hear if I cancel the holiday music.”

T.J. frowned, considering possible solutions to that equation. “I guess you can borrow my earmuffs.” He reached under the desk for his backpack and offered up a sorry-looking pair of muffs.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll just check into canceling Christmas altogether.”

“Oh, okay. Well, they’re here if you want them.” The earmuffs disappeared under the desk again and T.J. went back to his history lesson.

Matt entered his private office and closed the door behind him, thinking “Jingle Bells” might stay on the other side. But the music drifted in, bright as tinsel, a melody on amphetamines, overorchestrated into a galloping, get-with-the-spirit-or-else intrusion. He was not in the mood to get in the spirit, not in the mood for the looming holidays, not in the mood to do much except stare out the window at the sputtering snowfall.

Instead, he took his seat behind the ornately carved wooden desk that had passed from one industrious Jonathan to the next for a couple of centuries. The leather chair sighed and creaked as it settled beneath his weight into a supple, familiar comfort. Heat shushed through the air register. “Jingle Bells” switched over to “Jingle Bell Rock” and somewhere out on the water a ship’s horn brayed. Matt tossed the phone slips aside and turned on his computer. A list of messages popped up on the screen almost instantly. A dozen Merry Christmas greetings. A dozen more generic Happy Holidays, one Happy Hanukkah, and two credit card offers. Scattered among the greetings were five interoffice messages—two marked with a flashing red urgent!—a forwarded joke, two unsolicited Thoughts for the Day, a reminder that he was expected at the Freemans’ annual Hijacked Holiday dinner party tomorrow evening and an invitation to yet another holiday get-together between Christmas and New Year’s Eve at the Stamfords’.

“Bah humbug,” he muttered and turned off the computer.

He picked up the phone messages again, sorting through them with misdirected irritation. Jessica. Jessica. Jessica. Ainsley. Miranda. And Ainsley, again. He didn’t want to talk to Jessica because he knew that, sooner or later, she’d turn the conversation toward some new or imagined grievance Peyton O’Reilly had caused. He didn’t want to talk to Ainsley because her conversation always included something especially funny or endearing her friend, Peyton O’Reilly, had done or said. Ainsley wasn’t giving up on her plan of making a match for him and Peyton, despite his attempts to discourage her. Ainsley blithely disregarded his resistance and continued to find ways to bring Peyton’s name into almost any conversation. Miranda didn’t talk about Peyton O’Reilly, but then he didn’t really want to hear about Nate’s two sets of twins, either. If Andy had called and left a message, Matt would have returned the call in a heartbeat. But wise Andrew had scheduled a trip to Utah and, at this very moment, was likely hiking up or skiing down some blessedly quiet mountain trail. Matt figured his little brother hadn’t heard “Jingle Bells” in at least twenty-four hours. Maybe longer.

“Merry Christmas, Matt!!” Ainsley’s cheery greeting came through ahead of her as she opened the door and walked in. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy from the cold, her blond curls peeked out from under a Christmas-green stocking hat, her upper body was bundled in a fleecy Christmas-green coat, her pants were black, her boots red, and there was a sparkly gold scarf looped like a garland around her neck.

“Are you dressed like a Christmas tree on purpose?” he asked, getting up to accept a hug even as he turned his smile from her to her companion.

Miranda looked equally healthy, happy and fetching, although she wasn’t dressed remotely like a holiday icon. All in ivory, hair sleek and secured beneath a hat as stylish as practical, her smile was pure confidence, with more than a hint of excitement. “Merry Christmas, Matt!” She switched on the overhead, flooding the dimly lit office with wattage. “It is okay to turn on a light when you’re actually in your office, you know. It’s only when you leave for the day that you need to make sure it’s off.”

“I’m experimenting,” he said.

“With eyestrain?”

“With the theory that this constant bombardment of Christmas music will be less irritating in the dark.”

“Well, bah humbug to you, too.” Ainsley thumped him playfully on the arm. “But never fear. We are here to improve your attitude, lighten your spirits and take you out for lunch. Our treat. And we won’t take no for an answer, so don’t even bother with an excuse.”

“I just got here,” he said. “I had a breakfast meeting that lasted all morning and I have about ten minutes before I have to meet Jessica for lunch.” He paused, then added. “A working lunch.”

Ainsley and Miranda exchanged a look—one of those sister moments they seemed to be sharing on a regular basis these days. Then, having come to some mutual and mysterious understanding, Miranda walked around the desk and picked up the phone. “T.J.,” she said a moment later, “call Ms. Martin-Kingsley and tell her Matt has an unexpected family situation and won’t be able to keep their luncheon appointment.” She listened for a moment, then laughed. “That’s right. She’ll have to work without him. Thanks, T.J.”

She hung up, smiled at Matt. “Fancy that. You’re free for lunch.”

“Is this an unexpected family situation?”

Ainsley slipped her arm through his, beamed up at him. “You weren’t expecting us, we’re family and we’re hungry.”

Miranda gestured voila! “An unexpected family situation. Besides, Matthew, you do not want to spend any more time with Jessica than you absolutely have to. It gives me a headache just to think about her.”

It often gave him one, too, but then, lately, thinking about women in general had the same effect. “Great,” he said. “You two are taking me to lunch. Where are we going?”

“The Red Parrot?” Miranda suggested with a questioning glance to Ainsley.

“Suits me.” Ainsley gave Matt’s arm a gentle tug. “Is Peyton here today?” she asked as they moved toward the door. “We should ask her to join us.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.” Miranda’s comment was so quick, so close on the heels of Ainsley’s impromptu thought, that Matt would have had to be thicker than a slab of bacon not to realize this whole lunch scheme was a setup, put together and practiced ahead of time by his sisters for his ultimate good.

And that, in a nutshell, was the problem with women.

They believed a man could be improved, should be improved, and they were always eager to introduce him to a woman they thought was up to the task. He loved his sisters, liked and respected the men they’d chosen, believed each of them was better for having found the other. But that kind of relationship wasn’t for him. And it sure as hell wasn’t for him with Peyton. He’d come too close for comfort to thinking it might be possible not so very long ago and gotten burned for his effort. No, thank you.

“I’ve no idea where Ms. O’Reilly might be,” he said with a smile meant to convey benign indifference. “But I can guarantee she won’t want to have lunch with me.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” Ainsley’s eyes sparkled with secrets and innuendo.

“Oh, maybe the fact that our every conversation seems to turn into an argument.” Which wasn’t true, although it wasn’t entirely a lie, either. “Or maybe because she’s been avoiding me as much as possible for the past two months.” Which was true. He’d been avoiding her, too, but that was irrelevant. “Or maybe it’s because I’m on to this little matchmaking plan of yours and, for the record, I’m not interested. Never have been.” Which was a lie. “And never will be.” Again. Which was the truth.

The sparkle in Baby’s eyes merely brightened. “Wow, you’ve obviously given that a lot of thought.” Her gaze went to Miranda and some glimmer of understanding passed between the two women again. “Guess we won’t invite Peyton to lunch today.”

“Guess not,” Miranda said. “Guess we’ll just have to keep him all to ourselves.”

“Guess so.” Ainsley gave his arm a squeeze. “But, don’t worry, we’ll share you when the right woman comes along.”

“I’m not worried,” he replied. “Because the right woman isn’t going to come along for a very, very, very long time. If ever.”

Ainsley’s laugh conveyed more clearly than words just how much confidence she’d gained as a matchmaker during the past year. The smile she exchanged with Miranda told him she clearly had her romantic wand aimed at him. And clearly, Miranda also thought that he was a prime candidate for a makeover.

Protest was futile. But forewarned is forearmed, and he happened to know a few facts his sisters didn’t know. Weren’t ever going to know. So, let them plot to their hearts’ content. It would come to nothing, anyway. He and Peyton had agreed. And as far as he was concerned, that was the end of it.

PEYTON PUSHED her plate away, hoping no one would notice that she’d managed to massacre the cheeseburger, mangle and scatter the fries without eating a single bite. But, of course, no one would notice. The waiter was just trying to survive the lunch crowd. He didn’t care what food she left on her plate as long as he received his tip. Her lunch companion was even less interested than the waiter. Scarlett, at fifteen, was consumed with her own orbit, and barely aware that anyone else had a life apart from how it intersected with her own.

“You are not going to believe what she said after that.” Scarlett talked with a French fry, waving it like a baton before dipping it into first ketchup, then mayonnaise, then biting off the end. “‘It’s the silver Donna Karan or the blue Vera Wang, Scarlett.”’ She imitated their mother’s voice down to the imprecise slur of her Louisiana drawl. “‘You cannot have both. You do not need both. You may choose one, not both.”’ Scarlett double-dipped and bit again, chewing the fried potato as she pondered their mother’s complete ignorance. “I mean, puh-lease! As if I’d be caught dead in Karan or Wang! How can she think for one second I’d want to wear anything by a designer she likes?”

It was taken for granted, of course, that Peyton would agree. She was Scarlett’s main sounding board. At least when it came to discussing their mother. “How could Mother think you’d be interested in a dress by either of those very famous, very talented designers?” Peyton said. “Honestly, sometimes I think she does it just to torture you.”

Scarlett raised her perfect eyebrows and leveled a ketchup-smeared French fry for emphasis. “Don’t side with Mom, Peyton. Just because they couldn’t afford to buy you nice clothes when you were my age is no reason I should have to wear something I hate.” The ketchup end of the fry went into the lump of mayo and from there into Scarlett’s mouth. “Besides, this is a very special date for me. It’s important, and the dress has to be perfect.”

Here was the subject Peyton wanted to talk about and she chose her words carefully. “To impress Covington?”

“No, to impress Covington’s mother and father.” Her green eyes nailed Peyton’s best intentions. “I want Mr. and Mrs. Locke to see that even Louisiana swamp rats look pretty good in expensive clothes.” Scarlett was quick and had that uncanny teenagers’ knack of putting others on the defensive. “You have such a chip on your shoulder, Peyton. I don’t know why you bothered to move up here with us if all you’re going to do is find fault with every single boy I like just because he can trace his ancestry back to Plymouth Rock!”

“That’s not fair, Scarlett. I simply think Covington is too old for you.”

“He’s twenty. Five freaking years. Big deal.”

“At fifteen, five years is a big deal. He’s halfway through college. You’re still in high school. That difference in experience is a very big deal.”

“Mom doesn’t think so.” She played her ace casually, picked up another fry, changed the routine by skipping the ketchup, dipping only in the mayonnaise. “She likes Covington and thinks he’s perfect for me. She knows I’m very mature for my age.”

“So, as long as her opinions coincide with yours, then she really knows what she’s talking about.”

“If she thought Covington was too old for me, you’d be saying how smart she is. So why is it such a freaking sin that this time she happens to agree with me?”

Peyton had hoped to have a reasonable discussion. She’d thought she could say what neither of her parents would. She’d believed, foolishly it seemed, that Scarlett would listen to her. “Mother is easily…dazzled. She wants you to fit in so badly that she’s not giving you appropriate guidance. You’re fifteen. He’s twenty. Twenty, Scarlett. You should be dating boys your own age and, quite frankly, Covington should not be interested in dating someone so much younger than he is.”

Scarlett’s eyes flashed fury at the criticism. “That just shows how little you know, Peyton. For your information, Covington tells me I’m a lot more mature than the college girls he knows.”

“You’re underage, Scarlett, no matter how mature you may be. You have no business going to fraternity parties and he has no business inviting you. It’s not fair for him or anyone else to put you in situations you shouldn’t be in, situations that require choices you’re not ready to make.”

“How would you know? You never went to a fraternity party. You hardly ever even went out on a date. You went to class and came home. That’s it. You didn’t even live on campus.”

“I had to stay with you,” she retorted in self-defense. “Mom and Dad were working, and I didn’t live on campus so I could stay with you.”

“I never asked you to do that. I’ll bet Mom and Dad didn’t ask you to, either. You did it because you were too scared to go away to school. Or you did it because you liked feeling needed. I don’t know why you did it, and I don’t care.” She tossed the French fry onto her plate, wadded up her napkin, glared across the table. “I’m not going to make the mistakes you did, Peyton. By the time I’m twenty-seven, I’ll have had a million times more fun than you ever thought about having. And I’ll still turn out to be a whole heck of a lot smarter than you are now.”

That stung. Because it was true. Scarlett would have to be incredibly stupid, even at fifteen, to wind up in the situation Peyton now found herself in. Found herself. As if she hadn’t had a thing to do with getting there. As if she hadn’t, against every atom of good judgment, every molecule of good sense, willingly and willfully, made a really, really bad choice. And now she found herself without options.

Or at least without any options she wanted.

“Thanks for lunch.” The chair scraped across the floor as Scarlett pushed up from the table. “And thanks for caring, but the truth is I already have a mother. I don’t need another one.” She spun on her heel and flounced across the restaurant to the door, her slip of a purse bouncing against her slim little hip, her long dark hair swishing across her shoulders, her flippy strut and flippant attitude signaling her indignation.

And she was right.

Totally wrong in what she wanted, and was being allowed, to do. But absolutely right in thinking a sister had no authority to correct a parent’s mistake.

Peyton folded her own napkin, laid it beside her plate and waited for the bill to be delivered. She didn’t know why she’d ever thought talking to Scarlett about this was a good idea. She hadn’t been able to get her mother to see sense. Or her dad. So what had made her think she could persuade Scarlett? What had made her believe it was her duty to try?

She’d given up any claim to being a role model the night of Ainsley Danville’s wedding, the night she and Matt had gone looking for Scarlett.

They hadn’t found Scarlett or Covington, though it hadn’t been for lack of searching.

Oh, no, the lack had come later.

But she wasn’t going back over that night again. Not the worst of it. Not the best of it. If she could turn back the clock and change it all, from start to finish, she would. She’d stay at the party, stay out of Matt’s car, stay away from any possibility of finding herself in this…this untenable situation. But that door was closed. She had slammed it shut behind her, and now she had to follow the detour she had impetuously, and so unwisely, chosen.

The waiter brought the check; she gave him money and he returned with change, and she left it all on the table. She drank her ice water and let him refill the glass twice before, finally, pulling on her gloves, her coat, her scarf and heading out into the cold December air.

She hadn’t planned to see Matt Danville this afternoon, but the day was already ruined, her stomach already knotted with tension. And it wasn’t as if there would ever be a good time to face him and say the words that needed to be said. Nothing about this was going to be easy, no matter how much longer she put it off. So she might as well do it now, while the sky matched her mood and the air was cold enough to numb a heavy heart.

THE SNOWFLAKES of the morning had long since turned into a gray drizzle, but Matt swiveled his chair and stared out the rain-slicked window at the dreary afternoon. As if he had nothing to do. As if daydreaming was his main occupation. He had plenty of work awaiting him. Important work. Necessary work. Work that meant a world of difference to a child halfway around the world. A child he would never meet.

The wind chased a raindrop across the windowpane, leaving a wavy trail across the glass. A second drop splattered and raced to oblivion in three tiny rivulets. He wished that he could love this work, wished that it brought him the soul-deep satisfaction it should. But he seemed to lack something, some fundamental Jonathan element missing that left him dissatisfied and restless in his life. Which, right now, happened to be the reason he sat staring out the window at a dismal view instead of turning his mind to work that was worthy and rewarding and, by birthright, his to do.

He heard a soft footfall and the rustle of movement in the outer office, caught the scent of an elusive perfume and felt a twinge of regret that his solitude was about to be interrupted. T.J. attended classes in the afternoons. Jenny, the afternoon student assistant, was off sick with a cold. The Foundation offices seemed uncommonly quiet on this rainy day and, when he heard the soft tap on his opened door, he fully expected to turn and see Jessica standing in the doorway, one excuse or another tucked under her arm.

But when he swiveled around, it was Peyton who stood there, her coat unbuttoned and splotched from the rain, a plaid Christmas scarf hanging listlessly from her collar, her dark hair curling slightly with the damp. She appeared pale, hesitant, as if she’d rather be anywhere else as she drew a glove off first one hand, then the other. The sudden unwitting thrill of seeing her so unexpectedly faded as her eyes met his and her expression turned cool and distant. He missed the fire of her arguments, the zeal she’d thrown at him for no better reason than that she enjoyed their debates. But since the night at the beach house, she and her passionate opinions had avoided him. It made him think she’d expended all the passion she had to offer him that night and nothing but indifference remained. The fact that she was here, now, in his office, looking as if a breath of controversy would blow her away, annoyed him, and that annoyance was both illogical and inconvenient. But he rose, like a gentleman, and offered her a polite smile. “Peyton,” he said, her name forming a stern, stiff greeting.

“Matt,” she returned evenly, waiting in the doorway of his office for an invitation to come in, an invitation she seemed to know he didn’t want to extend. “Do you have a minute?”

“Actually, no.” He glanced at his watch, reluctant to be in her presence any longer than absolutely necessary, regretting the discomfort he seemed to cause her, too. “I’m due in Providence in an hour and should already be on my way. Jessica’s in her office, though. Why don’t you talk to her about whatever’s on your mind and she can fill me in later.”

“I could do that, but I don’t really think you want her to be the first to know that we’re pregnant.”

The word slammed into him. A sucker punch. “Come in,” he said. “Close the door.”

She stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, waited, perhaps for further instructions.

He had none for her, couldn’t have formed a cohesive thought if she’d put a gun to his head. Pregnant. The word pounded in his head, clawed at his composure, pummeled his gut with fear. Like a reel of film spinning too fast, his memory clicked off the events leading to this moment. The wedding reception. Her distress. Searching for her sister. The moon. The ocean. The decision to try the Lockes’ beach house on Cape Cod. His suggestion to stop at the Danville beach house for a break and a glass of wine. Her unexpected kiss. His unexpected response. One thing leading to another. The morning after. Her saying it was a mistake. His relief that she thought so, too. Their agreement to behave as if nothing had happened, to forget that anything had. And now…

He gestured to a chair and, without waiting for her to take a seat, he sank, weak-kneed, into his own. “Would you…say that one more time?”

“Pregnant,” she repeated. “You and I. We’re pregnant.”

He hated the way she said it. He wasn’t pregnant. Couldn’t be pregnant. How could this not be some ridiculous mistake? “Peyton, I don’t see how that could be poss—”

“Do not say it’s impossible,” she cut him off quickly, forcefully. “You know exactly how, and when, it happened.”

“But—”

“Yes,” she interrupted again. “I’m sure. Yes, I’m positive you’re the father. And yes, I’m going to have the baby.”

He clasped his hands together, pressed them hard against the desk to hide their trembling. A thousand denials jockeyed for position in his thoughts. This couldn’t be true, couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not with her. She sat facing him, looking calm if not serene, steady if not comfortable, the proof of her statements written in the shadows beneath her eyes, the terrible tension in her stillness. The weight of a dark acceptance settled into his shoulders, forced his head down until his forehead rested on his clenched fists. One night. One careless, stupid night out of a lifetime of careful, considerate choices. One foolish bet with fate in thirty-four years of dutiful caution. One night of flirting with an attraction he’d known should not be acknowledged much less encouraged. He was responsible and yet he blamed Peyton, wanted to stamp her with fault, label her a seductress and sidestep the consequences. To hell with the truth.

One night…and he was caught like the rat he’d always somehow suspected he was.

“I know this is a shock,” she said…and there might even have been the taint of compassion in her voice. “I’m sorry.”

He raised his head, gave her a stony stare. “Sorry for the shock? Or sorry we were so stupid?”

“Does it matter?”

No, but he needed something to justify his rising anger. “How long have you known?”

“Six weeks. I’ve been certain for four.”

“And you’re just now telling me?”

She didn’t even blink. “I had to make some decisions.”

“Decisions I could have no part in making, even though they’ll affect my life as much as yours?”

Her lips parted. He could all but see the excuses ready to spill out of her. But then she stopped, toyed with the fringe of her scarf. “Look, maybe I should go, give you some time to come to grips with this. We can talk later. After the holiday, maybe.”

“We’ll talk now.” The anger washed through him in a self-righteous, contemptuous wave. He hated this, hated her, hated himself for being in a situation he was too old and too responsible to be in. And yet, here he was, as good an example of poor judgment and bad behavior as any hormonal teenager. But so much worse…because he knew better and had not a single excuse. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve decided, Peyton.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I think that’s pretty much a given.”

She shifted slightly in the chair, tugged the fringe of her scarf through her fingers until her knuckles showed white with the strain. But when she met his gaze, when she spoke, there wasn’t even a hint of uncertainty. “We can do this one of two ways, Matt. We can agree that this conversation never took place. I’ll walk out that door, move away and out of your life. This child will be mine. You’ll bear no responsibility and have no claim. Not now, or at any time in the future. I’ll say I wanted a baby and went to a fertility clinic and that I have no idea who the father is.” Her eyes blazed with the conviction that was rock solid in her voice, scaring him a little with her intensity. “I’ll go to my grave with the secret, Matt, but you must agree to do the same.”




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