She scraped back her hair with her free hand. Before she’d left Dublin, she’d curled it. Now it hung in loose waves above her shoulders, and she was sure it looked tangled and unmanageable. Why hadn’t she taken a second to pull a brush through it? She’d been so anxious to ring her mother and brother, she hadn’t focused on anything else.
Aware Edward still scrutinized her, she scrambled for something to say. “I like an honest man,” was the best she could come up with.
His lips quirked in a half smile. “And I like an honest woman.” Lazily, his gaze dipped, perusing her from the tips of her sensible flats to the top of her hair.
To her chagrin, she felt her cheeks heat.
“So you’re from Ireland?”
She lifted her chin. “Aye.”
Something flickered in his gaze, and his smile persisted. “You have a lovely Irish brogue, Maeve.”
“Thank you.” He was a charmer, that was certain. He’d probably dated hundreds of women and planned to cast her onto his list of conquests.
She scanned the lobby. The air hung suspended, and several moneyed tourists openly stared. She imagined Dawson and his crew lurking behind a potted fern and snapping photos of her and Edward.
“I’m from England,” Edward continued, “so we don’t live far from each other.”
“A ninety-minute ferry ride from Dublin across the Irish Sea.” She shook her head ruefully. “Of course, you must factor in the additional four-hour train ride from Holyhead in Wales to London.”
“Have you ever visited London?”
“Never, although I’ve known friends who travel to London for soccer matches and concerts.”
Edward grinned, his white teeth flashed. “You’ll need to update your travel itinerary, Maeve. See the world, live a little.”
“Beginning with Corsica, aye?” She drew her hand from his and shot a glance at Pierre. He adjusted his patterned bow tie and patted the yellow square peeking from his breast pocket. “Dinner will be served at eight o’clock this evening.”
“We know,” Edward and Maeve said at the same time. They shared a chuckle.
“Thank you, Pierre. I’ll be there,” Maeve agreed.
“Most assuredly, so will I.” Very quietly, Edward added, “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better, Maeve.”
Chapter Four
Maeve had followed the bellhop to her second-floor suite.
Although she did not expect that she and Edward would be sharing a room, any hopes that his suite was in another building were quickly dashed. In the Yateses’ expectation of a match, they’d booked Maeve and Edward into adjoining rooms separated only by an arched door.
Maeve quickly solved the problem by noisily bolting the door, knowing Edward—who’d followed her and Nigel up the stairs—could hear her key turn in the lock.
What would she say when she called Colleen that night, as she’d promised to do, and Colleen asked what kind of a man Edward Newell was.
“He’s fine-looking, I’ll give him that,” Maeve would answer. “And successful, by the way he carries himself. We met unexpectedly in the lobby. He wore a spandex bathing suit that left little to the imagination and …”
No, that wouldn’t do. Colleen would ask one hundred questions and she’d never allow Maeve to get a good night’s rest.
Maeve spent the next few hours unpacking, showering, resting, and finally dressing for dinner.
At seven forty-five, she stared back at herself in the room’s full-length mirror. She’d decided to wear her favorite dress, a tie-dyed tank jersey that skimmed her slender figure to mid-calf, accenting her left leg with a side slit.
With a last swipe of rose lip gloss, she slipped on her ankle-strap sandals, grabbed her leopard pouch and walked down the one flight curving staircase. As expected, Pierre was behind his desk, his head bent over a computer.
Briefly, Maeve wondered if he ever slept.
“Miss Doherty.” Pierre looked up and immediately became cheerful. “May I show you the terrace? We reserved your table overlooking the harbor and Mr. Newell is waiting for you there.”
Here goes, she thought, taking in a deep breath. She’d worked herself into a knot of expectation for what the first dinner might bring with the attractive man she could only envision in a skimpy swimsuit.
Before she’d even unpacked, she had read his dating profile. Actually, she’d read it so much she had it memorized.
Outdoorguy, Age 30
“Never, never, never give up.” –Winston Churchill
I’m a guy who spends his time outdoors whenever he can get away from work.
It’s not often. You see, I’m married … to my job.
When I do go outside, my dog and I ride my motorcycle as far away from civilization as possible and pitch a tent.
My motto? Enjoy life whenever you can. Every day is a gift.
In his profile photo, he’d obviously just finished playing a pickup football game with friends, judging by the short-sleeved jersey clinging to his muscular shoulders and the beads of sweat on his forehead. A couple of teammates in the background wore wide grins, and they all held up pints of lager. She noticed he didn’t.
When Pierre showed her to the terrace, Edward, who had had his cellphone clapped to his ear, immediately disconnected and came to his feet. “Good evening Maeve. You look lovely.”
That devastating smile again.
She felt the heat rise to cover her face. “Thank you.”
He looked quite fine himself in his elegantly tailored pinstripe suit. His white starched shirt contrasted sharply with his tanned, wind-burned cheeks. His black hair had dried naturally and curled at his nape. Obviously, no fancy hair care products for him.
Pierre bid them a delightful evening as their waiter bore down on them. With a slight bow, he introduced himself as Achille and drew a chair out for her. He had a groomed white mustache and a genial smile.
She paused, taking in the expanse of sea and sky, an occasional whip of a tenacious breeze, the fragrant night air. Realizing Edward and Achille remained standing, waiting for her to sit, she settled into the chair.
Edward sat with his back to the harbor, perhaps out of consideration for her to appreciate the view, perhaps because Achille had directed him to sit there. Regardless, the sight from the wraparound terrace offered fine dining at its best. The Mediterranean night glistened under a bevy of silver stars, and fishing boats swayed side by side amidst million-dollar yachts, gentle waves lapping at the hulls. An occasional seabird swooped, feeding on the Mediterranean’s surface.
Achille returned bearing a silver serving tray with a bottle of Champagne in an iced bucket and two fluted glasses. “Because this is your first date, the Yateses insisted you indulge in our finest French Champagne.”
Achille set the glasses and equipment on an auxiliary table, drew the cork with a distinctive pop, and carried bottle and glasses to their table.
“Water for me, thanks,” Edward said when the waiter began pouring.
“Very good, sir. And you, mademoiselle?”
“I’d love a glass.”
The bubbly Champagne flowed, and Achilles waited for her to taste.
She took a sip, and nodded her approval. As Achilles marched back to the kitchen, taking Edward’s unused glass, she asked, “You don’t drink?”
“Not in seven years.” He shrugged. “I take that back. I imbibed at my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
“Congratulations on the longevity of their marriage!”
“They were married thirty years.” He paused, and his voice was quiet when he spoke again. “My mother passed away a year later. She’s been gone five years now.”
Maeve hesitated, trying unsuccessfully to think of something to say, and decided to stick with what was in her heart. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you miss her terribly.”
“I do. Thanks.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “My siblings and I are all still devastated. She was a courageous woman who
fought bravely.”
“How did she die?”
“From cancer.”
“My sincere condolences.” Maeve’s thoughts scrambled and with effort she gathered them together. She couldn’t face where the discussion might lead—to her brother, his cancer—so she modified the subject. “Otherwise, you don’t drink, Edward?”
“Not a drop.”
Achille came back to the table with their menus and recited the catches of the day. “Of the choices, I recommend our Corsican fish. It is prepared unassumingly with olive oil and wrapped in foil. C’est délicieux!”
On that recommendation, Maeve ordered the Corsican fish, as well as sautéed potatoes and fresh asparagus. Edward asked for the same.
When the waiter disappeared into the kitchen, Edward lifted his water glass. “I believe a toast is in order. Cheers to us!”
“Aye.” With their glasses upraised, they clinked.
She rarely drank, but because she was in a country she’d always fantasized about visiting, because a most attractive man sat across from her, because she needed courage to converse with him intelligently, she told herself it was okay.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” she declared.
“Neither can I.”
She grinned. “It’s because of my best friend—”
“It’s because of my university friend—” They shared a laugh and clinked glasses again “To friends.”
He set down his glass. “So this Perfect Match week wasn’t something you agreed to voluntarily?”
“To be honest, no.” Somehow, she wanted to tell him more. Perhaps about her brother’s illness, her mother’s never-ending drama.
No, that wouldn’t do. She hardly knew him.
Instead, she drained her glass and clarified, “I’m a friend of Amy Yates.”
“Who is she again?”
“Amy and her husband Dawson own the dating agency.”
“Right.”
“How about you? Why are you here?”
“Hmm?”
He was staring at her so intently she didn’t know whether to avoid his gaze or stare back at him. She opted for gazing at the boats in the harbor. “You mentioned your friend,” she reminded Edward as Achille appeared to refill her champagne glass.
“Oh, right.” There was a long silence before Edward continued. “My friend Bentley decided to play a practical joke and signed me up for this, somewhat of an escapade. When he learned about the joke, my father thought it was an excellent idea. He’d just as soon marry me off to the prettiest woman with two—”
Maeve drew back in her chair and raised her glass to her lips. “Two …?”
“Legs. Two legs.” If Edward was trying to look sheepish, the attempt was marred by his boyish grin.
When the meal arrived, she bowed her head and whispered a prayer. Edward didn’t participate, although he did bow his head.
More than an hour later, after a lengthy dinner and nonstop conversation, Achille served fiadone, a light cheesecake, for dessert. She managed a bite before pushing it to the side. “One word for this cheesecake is a sinful marvel.”
“That’s two words. Three words if you count the a.”
“Aye.” She laughed. “I wish I could finish it. It’s delicious.”
“Do you mind, then?” He waited for her assent before scooping the cheesecake onto his plate.
As he ate, she gazed at the spectacular scene behind him, particularly the way the lights from the town glistened on the harbor’s glass-like surface. In her mind’s eye, she visualized the panorama at daybreak, sunshine dappling across the boathouses, iron benches set alongside wooden paths leading to the sea, violets and orchids blanketing the flower beds.
The little she’d eaten of dinner had been superb—hot crusty rolls, wafer-thin fish, creamy potatoes, and steaming asparagus sprinkled with parmesan cheese, salt and pepper—all served on porcelain dinnerware, cobalt blue and white, edged in gilded scrollwork. The hectic day of travel, the weather fluctuations from Ireland’s dampness to this tropical warmth, so utterly different from her rainy climate, had set her stomach aflutter. Wistfully, she eyed the champagne. She didn’t want to waste an entire expensive bottle by drinking only two glasses.
Attributing the delicious warmth flooding her veins to a marvelous evening, she debated indulging in more champagne. However, when Achilles started to refill her glass, she checked him at only a half. Over the rim, she observed Edward. All evening, he’d entertained her with fascinating facts about London’s off-the-beaten-path book shops and historical sites. Always soft-spoken, he seemed genuinely interested in the latest Irish scuttlebutt she’d shared, leaning closer, encouraging her to continue whenever there was a lull in their conversation. He exhibited the kind of natural polish she’d observed in the well-heeled clients that frequented Merrimac.
No doubt the other women on the terrace coveted Edward as their date, she thought, for she’d caught more than a few appreciative glances sent his way. Amazingly, this sophisticated and urbane man was with her.
She smiled. He caught her gaze and held it.
And there it was, that tug of attraction.
How? They’d only just met.
As she mulled this over, Edward slanted her a long look. “Quite a day?”
“Aye.” She held a hand to her mouth, stifling an unexpected yawn.
“Tired?”
“A little.”
“I noticed you didn’t eat much, luv.” Pointedly, his gaze fell to her empty glass. If he assumed she was feeling a wee bit drunk, he was right.
“I’ll make up for my lack of appetite tomorrow,” she said. “I love to eat decidedly more than I love to cook.”
“I didn’t read that bit of information on your profile.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Edward.” She was feeling particularly cheery and unconcerned that she was having trouble focusing. “Do you cook?”
“I prefer takeout, and if I’m forced to host a dinner party, I ring a caterer. I look at the menu online, pick appetizers, a main course, and a dessert, pay the bill, and then I’m done. It doesn’t mean I’m lazy,” he continued. “It just means I’m inadequate.”
She grinned. “I can’t imagine you being inadequate in anything.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” he said, parroting her earlier phrase. He pushed back his chair and buttoned his suitcoat. “If you’re ready to leave, I’ll walk you to your room.” He winked. “It’s not out of my way.”
She laughed again. “Aren’t we waiting for someone from the Perfect Match staff to explain what’s in store for us this week?”
“Are we?”
“Didn’t you read the paperwork?”
He gave a rueful smile. “Clearly not everything.”
As if on cue, a pert young woman walked over to their table and introduced herself as Carissa Swanson. She looked to be in her thirties, with a stream of blonde hair. She was a member of the Perfect Match staff. She invited them to sit somewhere else on the terrace that was away from the dining tables.
“I will leave the champagne, mademoiselle?” Achille asked Maeve as he and a busboy discreetly removed plates and silverware. He nodded to Carissa.
“Not a drop more tonight, Achille. Thank you.” She placed a hand over the ounce left in her glass, then traced a finger along the cork in the basket. “A cup of hot tea with a spot of sugar sounds good, though.”
“Very good, mademoiselle.”
Carissa encouraged Edward and Maeve to relax in a cushioned loveseat adjacent to her and urged them to sit close.
She began with a brief description of Perfect Match and the algorithms the company had developed for pairing couples. “We are certain,” she went on, “that we’ve set you two up correctly. For example, you’re both workaholics, have never been married, and you both own a dog. Of course, there’s more to it than that.” She smiled. “But we’ll let you two find out those things.”
She directed her
gaze toward Maeve. “Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, we’d appreciate footage of you two exploring the island together.”
There went her work intentions, Maeve thought. Or maybe she could surreptitiously take notes and photographs of the places they visited to submit to Merrimac Company as potential locations for a new hotel.
“When the sun sets tomorrow night,” Carissa continued, “you can frolic in the sea for a swim.”
“Frolic?” Edward lifted a dark eyebrow.
“Mr. Yates’s word, sir.”
“Sorry, but I don’t swim.” Maeve moved her tea aside. “I don’t think I packed a bathing suit …”
Edward’s grin was positively roguish. “If you didn’t, there’s a natural bay on the west coast where you can swim without wearing any—”
“I’ll buy a swimsuit in the gift shop,” she interrupted.
“One piece or two?”
“I’m not certain until I see a style I want to wear.”
“I’m partial to string bikinis on women.”
Torn between humor and shock, she jibed, “I definitely will not keep that in mind.”
She blushed easily, an embarrassing giveaway of her emotions, and she felt a tint of heat on her face. With a half giggle, she reached for the swallow left in her glass while gaily considering her newest predicament—which swimsuit to purchase. If only life in Ireland could be so uncomplicated.
Carissa left a short while afterward, and Edward and Maeve sat in silence while fragments of conversation from the other diners went on around them. Content with the world, Maeve sighed contentedly and burrowed deeper into the loveseat.
“I didn’t know you like dogs,” Edward said. Somehow, his arm had ended up around her shoulders as he grinned down at her.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No. Some people like cats.” He brushed a light kiss on her forehead, sending a disturbed flurry of excitement to her pulse. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Crinkles. She’s a miniature pug.”
“A regular-sized pug is small enough to fit in a suitcase. How much does Crinkles weigh?”
Maeve (Perfect Match Book 6) Page 3