by Nancy Warren
“How original.”
“Yeah. It was sort of embarrassing because everybody in the restaurant started clapping, and the waiter popped a bottle of champagne, and… I never said yes.”
“But you said yes this morning.”
There was a pause. “Not really. I don’t think he asked me a question.”
Controlling fiancé, or just a nervous one?
“Then this woman at the next table came over to mine to congratulate me after Derek left. I was pretty stunned. I guess I wasn’t acting very happy. She said I shouldn’t marry him. And she offered me a job.”
“A complete stranger told you not to get married?”
Stephanie nodded.
“And offered you a job doing what?”
“Secretary at this agency she owns.”
“What sort of agency?”
“She breaks up relationships for money.”
Deb was starting to get a headache. “What?”
“It’s what she said. She’s like the opposite of a matchmaker.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Here’s her card,” Stephanie said, digging the white rectangle out of her bag.
She handed it to Deborah, who read it carefully, pursed her lips with annoyance, and placed it on the glass-topped coffee table.
“Chloe Flynt sounds like a very destructive person.”
Stephanie gazed at her in mild astonishment. “You always tell me not to make snap judgments about people.”
Something tight pulled from beneath her scalp, like a fine wire. She wanted to snap, “Don’t argue.” Instead, she repeated her mantra. Calm, cool, collected. The three Cs that kept her functioning.
“Normally, I wouldn’t judge someone based on a business card, you’re right.” What was it about this particular card that made her arteries vibrate, as though she could actually feel her blood pressure rising? She picked up the card and studied it for clues as to why something so frivolous and beneath her notice should make her react this way.
“This woman has no letters after her name. No degree, no designation whatsoever. What training does she have for this work?”
“Do you need training to break up relationships?”
“You need the sense to stay out of other people’s business,” she snapped.
Stephanie didn’t argue, simply looked at her with those big brown eyes. She didn’t need to speak; it was obvious what she was thinking. Deborah made her living getting involved in other people’s business. It was unlike her to get so rattled over something so trivial. She made a note to herself to consult with Jordan. “Why would she want to hire you? A perfect stranger?”
“Well, first she wanted me to hire her to break up the engagement, but I told her I, um, wasn’t interested. So then she asked if I’d like to come and work for her.”
“And what did you say?”
“I turned her down.”
A puff of breath Deb hadn’t known she was holding released in a sigh. “I’m very glad you did that. This woman does not sound like a good influence for you.” She could see a mulish expression around Stephanie’s mouth. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”
“I feel like if one more person tells me who is or is not a good influence, or a good boyfriend or mother or husband, I will scream. When am I going to be allowed to make my own decisions?”
“Thank you for your honesty. Can you imagine why people who care about you might want to help you reflect on some of your own impulses?”
The younger woman nodded miserably.
“All right, Stephanie,” Deborah said. “Would it be fair to say you’re confused right now?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Do you think your confusion caused you to relapse to behavior you know is counterproductive?”
“I guess.”
“Why don’t you try doing one of our pro and con lists? What is good about marrying Derek? What are the negatives?”
“Okay,” Stephanie replied, sounding anything but excited at the prospect.
An increasingly familiar spurt of irritation gurgled up into Deborah’s throat—scalding words she wanted to blurt out and couldn’t. Pull yourself together, you stupid twit. You’ve wasted years of your young life on losers. Here’s a decent guy, finally, and you want to break up and go on a shoplifting spree? Marry him, settle down. Have some kids. Quit wasting my time.
She didn’t say that. She never said what she was thinking. Instead, she smiled her calm, cool smile, reached for one of her copyrighted pro and con lists, and passed it to her client along with a fresh pen.
“I don’t know what to put first.”
We’ve done about twelve of these. How hard is it? “Well, why don’t we start with a positive, like we usually do?”
Chapter 7
Chloe returned home late that afternoon with a pleasant feeling of accomplishment. She had brochures and cards in quite a number of salons as well as a really nice manicure.
If she spread out all her cosmetic needs, she hoped she’d be able to support all the spas and salons that carried her promotional materials. She was also toying with the idea of some sort of commission, or gift, for other professionals who steered business her way. She’d have to talk to Gerald about that, she decided, stopping to make a note.
She’d almost reached her front door when, with a sudden shake of the head, she changed direction and crossed the lawn to her neighbor’s house, where she rapped on the front door.
She could hear music inside, and she waited. She had to rap a second time before the door opened. The man was dripping wet, a thick blue towel wrapped around his waist. Chloe tried not to notice that his torso was mouthwateringly buff. Muscles where a woman liked to find muscle, nice lean middle, exactly the right amount of chest hair, wet and dark.
“What?”
“You were in the shower, I see.”
“That detective business must be doing real well, with those skills of yours.” His eyelashes were clumped together with water and she’d never noticed the amount of green in his hazel eyes.
Her own spur of lust made her snappish. “You took long enough to answer the door—could you not have grabbed a robe?”
Amusement gleamed in the depths of his eyes, along with the sexual awareness that flashed between them more than it should. He glanced down at his rather delicious self and then at her. “Is this bothering you?”
Realizing she was in danger of letting him know exactly how much his half-naked body was bothering her—and therefore playing intolerably into his already Texas-sized ego—she rolled her eyes and said, “Please. A hand towel would have done the job.”
Instead of looking horribly offended, his eyes crinkled. “What can I do for you?”
Oh, she felt like pulling on the all-too-accessible knot, throwing the blue towel to the floor, and showing him exactly what he could do for her. However, she was here for work and besides, the coffee-cake-baking Brittany was between them, which meant that shagging him on the living room floor was probably not a great idea just at the moment. Sad, really.
The towel left his knees bare and she noticed a nasty-looking network of scars over his left knee.
“I wonder if you followed that tedious young man?”
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. His eyes lost their amusement and hardened. “It’s generally not a real good idea to go around following strange men.”
She smiled at him. “I know. That’s why I asked you to do it. Did you?”
He nodded briefly.
“And?”
“You’d better come in.”
“Ooh, good. That must mean it’s juicy.”
“It means I need to put some clothes on and then you and I are going to have a little talk.”
She stepped inside a house that was very similar to hers, only larger. “Have a seat,” he told her, pointing into the living room. “I’ll be right back.”
She paused in the doorway to watch him pound up the
stairs, enjoying the sight of a muscular back sparkling with water drops, a bottom that was deliciously round and firm, and long, hard-muscled legs. All right, so she couldn’t touch. Didn’t mean she couldn’t look.
Once he was out of sight, she ignored his suggestion to sit and gave herself a tour of his downstairs. It was surprisingly tidy, almost as tidy as she herself liked to keep things. He’d refinished all the inside doors to a satiny, dark wood. There were bookshelves on either side of a stone fireplace, stuffed with an enticing assortment of books. Lots of construction and home handyman books, and novels in a range that surprised her, from literary authors to gory thrillers. The rest were science books.
She’d planned to speed around the entire downstairs, but his books had stalled her for too long, and he dressed faster than anyone she knew. Likely he’d hurried because he didn’t trust her, she thought with a slight smile as she heard his footsteps pounding down the stairs. His furniture was rather chunky, mission-style pieces that were lovely, but also comfortable, she found when she finally sat.
He emerged still damp of hair and bare of foot, but with everything in between covered by jeans and a dark green polo shirt.
“So? Where did he go? That young man you followed?” she asked quickly, determined to forestall the talk he wanted to have with her until after she’d got the info she wanted.
Matthew took the chair opposite hers. “He went to work. He’s got a job in a jewelry store in the mall.” Not terribly surprising, since Stephanie had told her about his job, and this was absolutely none of her business since the newly engaged woman had turned down her offer. Still, for some reason she couldn’t quite let it go. “I don’t trust him. I don’t think he’s good for Stephanie.”
“The girl in the food court?”
She nodded.
He still looked far too serious. “Look, Chloe, I don’t know what your game is, but it’s got to stop. You can’t hassle people in a public place and follow guys to work. That may be how you do things in England, but here in Texas you’re going to find yourself in trouble.”
She heard his words but she ignored them, naturally. He didn’t know that there was an important purpose behind her actions and she didn’t intend he should know until she was good and ready to tell him.
What she did listen to was the subtext of what he was saying. She nodded her head in satisfaction. “You didn’t trust him either.”
“I didn’t—” His lips firmed and she could have sworn he was counting in his head before his mouth opened again and he said, “You’re not listening to me. You can’t do this.”
“Admit it, you enjoyed being a detective again.”
“I did not—” He stopped. Glared at her once more. “How do you know I was a detective?”
How had she known? She puzzled over that as a drop of water trickled lazily from his still-wet hair, down his neck, to slide beneath the shirt that she now knew covered a very broad, nicely tanned shoulder. “I didn’t know. You seem like a detective.”
The gleam of amusement was back and something about the way he looked at her had lust curling in her belly. “Being one yourself, you recognize the type.”
She smiled at him. Eventually, of course, he’d find out exactly who she was and what she did, but she didn’t want him finding out anytime soon. It would spoil all her fun. And, she realized with a shock, she was having fun. More than she’d had in ages. Part of it was this man she was so obviously driving crazy. One of her specialties.
“Where did you go while you had me tailing that guy?”
She shrugged. “I had some business to transact, and then I had a manicure. Which your fifty dollars paid for.” She held up her hands as though he might not believe her. She’d resisted all the fun colors and stuck with a good old French manicure, since it seemed more like something a businesswoman ought to sport.
“Nice,” he said. Once more his eyes sobered. “Look, I know you’re a long way from home and you don’t know anyone here. I told Gerald I’d look out for you.”
“That’s very sweet, but—”
“All I’m trying to say is that I’m here. If you get stuck and need anything.”
She was surprisingly touched by the gruff words. She tried not to think about the fact that she was thousands of miles away from everything and everyone familiar. “Thank you.”
“Just stay on the right side of the law.”
“Fair enough. I think—” She never had a chance to finish the sentence. Her cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said to Matthew. “This is probably business.” In fact, it was most likely Nicky, bored, but surprisingly, it turned out to be a business call.
“Is this The Breakup Artist?” asked a nervous-sounding man who was keeping his voice so low she could barely hear him.
“Yes, it is. How can I be of service, sir?”
“I have a problem.”
“I see,” she said. “What kind of problem?”
She waved a hand good-bye to Matthew, and then let herself out the front door and headed back to her own place.
“I need to end a relationship, but the woman is my boss.”
Sounded very efficient to Chloe, to be able to chuck a job and a romance all at once, but she was aware that not everyone shared her talents for drama, unemployment, and uncoupling.
“I see,” she said, suitably grave. “That is a problem.”
“Yes.” The word was a sigh. “So, do you think you can do something? She can’t know it’s me wanting to end the relationship.”
“You want to keep your job?”
“Yes. I like my job and I’m good at it.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
There was a short pause. “Can I rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.” She became mildly interested. Perhaps he was a spy, or a famous celebrity, or—
“You have to promise not to laugh.”
“Certainly.”
She entered her own home and ran lightly up the stairs.
“I’m a relationship counselor. My boss wrote a book and I helped her with it, so she made me a co-author.”
“What is the book called?”
“Perfect Communication, Perfect Love.”
She didn’t laugh, at least not aloud, so that he could hear her on her mobile, but she did have to put her hand over her mouth to stifle her reaction. This was either a practical joke, which, given the fact that the call wasn’t from overseas, seemed unlikely, or this man was buggered.
“I see,” she said at last. “Tell me about the relationship.” By this time she’d reached her office. While he talked, she settled at her laptop and searched an online bookstore for the title of the book and sure enough, found it listed. It was doing rather well, too.
Oh, hello. Here was something interesting. She interrupted whatever the man was saying without ceremony. “It says on the Internet that the authors are appearing live on a chat show here in Austin.”
“Yes, that’s why I had to call you. I feel like such a fraud.”
“Ooh, there’s an idea. Tell you what.” She was thinking fast. So many possibilities with a chat show. “We could have somebody show up in the audience—you know, a plant. And they could claim that the book’s ruined their life, that it’s a load of old rubbish, and perhaps you could use the ensuing professional disaster to ease out of the affair.”
There was a pause. “This is your solution?”
“Well, you’ve got to admit she’ll never know you wanted to break up with her.”
“Could you think of something that wouldn’t destroy our careers and our business?”
“Sounds to me like your business might be better off without this book.” She was skimming the reviews and it did sound like a load of old crap.
“Please. I’m desperate.”
“All right. If you don’t want to do the chat show, we’ll have to get her to fall in love with someone else.”
He laughed in amazement. “Deborah? You think Deborah would fa
ll out of love?”
“Why not? You did.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then you’d better explain it to me. No, no, not now,” she said when he began to speak. “In person. Meet me—” She flipped to her onscreen calendar, which Gerald had so cleverly sorted for her. “—tonight. We’ll meet for a drink.”
“Somewhere quiet, where no one will see us.”
“I know, there’s a lovely restaurant and bar at the Judge’s Mansion on the Hill. Do you know it? Corner of Rio Grande and MLK.”
“Near the university?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay.”
“Seven thirty?”
“Sure. How will I know you?”
“You won’t. Carry a copy of your book. I’ll find you.”
When she arrived at the Judge’s Mansion a few minutes past the appointed time, Chloe was pleased to see her newest customer. He glanced around nervously from one of the tables in the lounge area, a copy of the book lying on the table and pointing toward the door. He had reddish-brown hair and was what you’d call nice looking if he were going out with your best friend and you were trying to be generous. He had a chin that was neither strong nor weak, more irresolute, with pale blue eyes and the kind of skin that blushes easily. He was impeccably groomed, however. She’d never seen such a perfectly knotted tie or such shiny loafers.
She hadn’t expected much, considering he was too timid to break up with a woman he no longer loved. He hadn’t even ordered himself a drink; he was sitting there looking jumpy.
She slid into the chair across from him and said, “Hello. I’m Chloe.”
He glanced around as though she might have brought his boss along, before saying, “Yes, hello. I’m Jordan.”
Since Chloe believed that a meeting conducted at seven thirty in a drinks lounge would go more smoothly with an actual drink in hand, she gestured to the sweet-looking young man polishing glasses behind the bar, who obligingly made his way to their table.
“Hi. What can I get you folks?”