The Matchmaker's Sister

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  He rose from the bedside, tucked the covers tightly, securely around the child, kissed her forehead, then turned and came to Miranda. He was half-dressed, wearing a pair of long flannel pants—air force blue—and nothing else. No shoes, no shirt, the feathering of hair across his chest providing the only coverage from the waist up. His dark hair was disheveled, his eyes still somewhat shadowed with sleep, and there were marks on his stubbled jaw, wrinkles imprinted from the sheets onto his skin while he slept. She found that a tender thought for some reason, loved the idea of him sleeping with the linen crumpled up beneath his face.

  Nate was a very attractive man…even when not at his best.

  Or perhaps, this was the best. No illusions. No pretense. A man, fresh out of bed, awakened with a start—as she had been—and uncaring that she saw him unshaven and unkempt. Or that she was seeing him that way.

  Fast on the heels of that thought came the realization that she hardly looked her best. Her nightshirt wasn’t sexy or sheer and bordered on the threadbare side of comfort, but it was—no getting around it—short and thin and definitely meant for sleep rather than seduction. Not that she wanted to be wearing anything alluring, but she did wish she had on something a little more, well…feminine…than this faded blue nightshirt with its faded silver moons. A thick, fluffy, long robe would have been nice. But she hadn’t thought about that or this, either.

  This being she in her nightshirt, standing reasonably close to him in his lounge pants.

  She suddenly became excruciatingly aware that between them, they barely had on one pair of pajamas.

  “I’m sorry she woke you,” Nate said, drawing Miranda out into the hall, his hand on her arm warming her through in just that tiny bit of a minute. “She’s done this off and on for a long time. She won’t even remember it tomorrow. Most of the time I’m pretty sure she never even completely wakes up.”

  Nate smiled at her. A sleepy sort of smile. A smile that, for some completely bizarre reason, made her want to giggle. And she never giggled, refused to giggle, was way past the age when giggling was even remotely something she would do. On the other hand, she was standing in the hall in her nightshirt talking to a man in his pajamas. She would have thought that wasn’t a thing she would do, either. And it probably required some explanation. “I only came to check because I was afraid you might not hear her.”

  “I may not know what to do with my children in the daylight, but I’ve been getting up with them in the middle of the night for years now. Thirteen years, to be exact. Ever since we brought Will and Cate home from the hospital. Angie wouldn’t have heard a bass drum if I’d been playing it in the bed next to her.” His smile softened. “And there were plenty of nights I thought about trying it, too. Just to be sure.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Miranda corrected him, defending a woman she’d never even met. “I can see that you’re a wonderful father, but I find it a little hard to believe you were a nighttime martyr.”

  “Okay, so she took the occasional midnight duty, mostly when I had to be away on deployment. But for the most part, I was the middle-of-the-night designated parent.”

  And now, she thought, that was his status 24-7.

  They stood for a moment, designated parents past and present, and the silence stretched between them, no more noticeable than if it were simply another shadow in the dark. He didn’t seem bothered that she wasn’t dressed for conversation. He didn’t seem to be aware that she was barely dressed. She, on the other hand, felt supremely conscious of being in her nightshirt, completely bewildered at her desire to linger here in the hallway with him, hoping for something she hadn’t thought she wanted to happen.

  “You know, Miranda,” he said after a space that might have been long, might have been brief, “I’ve been thinking we should take a trip. Maybe next week. If you’re free.”

  “A trip? Together?” Images tumbled through her mind. She and Nate in a car. On a plane. Maybe on a train. A trip to somewhere not here. Time to talk. To laugh. To find the kiss that had earlier eluded them, but still hovered, unfulfilled, between them. “What kind of a…trip?”

  “A shopping trip,” he said matter-of-factly. “To get some furniture for the coffeehouse. If I take the kids, I’ll only wind up with some god-awful, uncomfortable, and probably very purple furnishings not fit for anyone over the age of fifteen. I need help, Miranda. I need your help. Otherwise it could get very ugly.”

  She was disappointed. And she knew he caught a glimpse of it in her eyes, even though she dropped her gaze hastily to hide the emotion. “I don’t really have any time,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush of self-defense. “With Ainsley’s wedding, there’s so much to do, so many details I need to handle. I just don’t see how I can fit anything else in.” She forced her gaze up to meet his, hoped it was appropriately apologetic. “You understand.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled with a slow, sexy smile. “What I understand—the only thing I understand right now—is that trying to talk under these circumstances is a lost cause.”

  “Circumstances?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer, but his expression told her exactly what he meant and, with a bare sigh, she stopped pretending she didn’t understand. He was aware of what her nightshirt did…and didn’t…cover. The realization made her both self-conscious and flooded her body with a perfectly ridiculous pleasure.

  “Much as I hate to suggest this, Miranda, I think you should go back to bed.”

  There was an inherent choice in the suggestion and, as her eyes met his in the shadowy darkness, she knew they were both imagining the alternative. For a heartbeat, maybe two, she thought about letting it happen, about making it happen. But that was a line she wasn’t going to cross. She would go to bed, alone, as would he, even though the thought of him would now go with her as, she was certain, he would take the thought of her with him. Anticipation fairly sparkled in the air between them, making the breath catch in her throat, awakening possibilities throughout her body. “Yes,” she said, trying to pull herself away from temptation, even though her feet firmly refused to budge. “I should go to bed.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Me, too.”

  “You are the designated parent.”

  “And you have a couple of husky brothers just down the hall.”

  Her smile curved, unbidden. She should not be doing this, had no business enjoying this flirtation. Encouraging it. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. The night and Nate were conspiring against her, shutting out her better judgment, trapping her in a delicious fantasy. “They’re not so husky,” she said.

  “I could outrun them, but I’d probably just trip myself up in the croquet field.”

  She tilted her head to one side, allowed her smile to tease him just a little. “I’m pretty good at first aid.”

  His eyes burned her with a tender, impossible desire. “Go to bed, Miranda. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  It wasn’t rejection. She knew that. She did. But she couldn’t stop the wave of disappointment that flooded through her, couldn’t keep her gaze from dropping. “I have an appointment. Early. So I probably won’t see you….” Her voice faded away because she knew it betrayed her attempt at nonchalance.

  “Yes, you will. Now, go.”

  She knew it was good advice, however reluctant she was to take it. “Nate,” she began, not even knowing what she wanted to say.

  With a soft sigh, he brought his hand to the back of her head, pulled her to him and took her lips in a long, lovely kiss. A kiss of languid desire and banked passions. A kiss that stole her heart and made no promise to return it. A kiss that made her knees weak. A kiss that set her body trembling beneath the yearning in it. A kiss that…ended and left her wanting more.

  So much more.

  Nate set her away from him. Firmly. Decisively. Even though his breath was ragged from the effort. “We’re not doing this, Miranda. Not tonight. Not here. Not this way. Go to bed. Please.”

>   She opened her mouth to deny that this was happening, to assure him she had no intention of seducing him. Or of allowing him to seduce her. Tonight. Here. This way. Or any other way.

  But the look in his dark eyes stopped her from speaking the lie aloud.

  “Go,” he repeated.

  And she went.

  Chapter Eight

  “Where’s Miranda?” Andrew walked into the morning room, where the Danville siblings had gathered for breakfast as long as they could remember, and went straight to the sidebar. “I need to talk to her about the design for tomorrow’s photo shoot.”

  Ainsley glanced up from the society page of the newspaper to assess her twin with a critical eye. Dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, he was the more rugged of her brothers. Matthew was, technically, the more handsome and definitely the more sophisticated, but Andrew’s strawberry-blond hair and casual, outdoorsy style gave him an edgy sort of attraction. Of course, he was her twin and she might be—however slightly—biased in his favor. “Andrew?” she mused aloud. “Do you know Peyton O’Reilly?”

  “I don’t know. Is she pretty?”

  “Yes, and new in Newport. Her family bought the Wright mansion and completely tore it apart renovating it. At least, that’s what Lucinda told me…and she usually knows.”

  “Blond or brunette?”

  “Lucinda?”

  “This Peyton person.”

  “Oh. Brunette. A very striking brunette. I’ve been working with her at the pediatric center. She volunteers.”

  Andrew filled his plate as if second helpings wouldn’t be allowed. “Why?”

  “She’s very committed to helping others, says her parents were very lucky in their business ventures and she believes good fortune must be shared.”

  “Gee, where have I heard that philosophy before?”

  “Gee, I can’t imagine.” Ainsley watched him take a seat at the table and pondered the metabolism that allowed him to eat like a veritable machine and stay lean and muscular as an athlete. “Mom and Dad are going to love Peyton.”

  “They love anyone who volunteers through the Foundation.”

  “Yes, but she’s…special. They’re going to especially love her.”

  Andrew glanced up with a frown. “This is beginning to sound ominous for someone. Please tell me you’re matchmaking for Matt and not for me.”

  Ainsley mimicked his frown, exaggerated it, returned it, and told herself she would have to be more careful about what she said around here. Of course, soon—barely four weeks now left until the wedding—she’d be married and living with Ivan. Then her brothers wouldn’t constantly think she was trying to set them up with the right woman and an introduction of possibilities. Which maybe she was, and maybe she wasn’t. “I’m not matchmaking for you, that’s for sure. I’d never be able to find a woman who’d put up with you. How’s Hayley?”

  “Who?”

  “Hayley Sayers? She is still your photography assistant, isn’t she?”

  He paused for the barest of moments. If she hadn’t been watching, she’d have missed it. “Hayley,” he repeated, as if trying to place her, “yes, she’s still with me.”

  “Really.” Ainsley knew this was a long shot, but she went for it, anyway. “How’s that going?”

  Andrew’s gaze cut to Ainsley with suspicion as he reached for the pepper. “We ignore each other as much as possible. It seems to work better for both of us that way.”

  “Hmm,” Ainsley murmured.

  He pointed his fork at her for emphasis. “Don’t even think about it, Ainsley. Never in a million years will I have more than a professional interest in Hayley Sayers. So just turn your little fairy godmother wand away from me and focus on Matt. He needs a woman to take care of him, especially since Miranda seems to have gone AWOL.”

  “She’s busy,” Ainsley said diplomatically, leaving the subject of Hayley for another day.

  “I see that cute little glint in your eye, Baby. You’re trying to set her up, too, aren’t you?”

  “Trying to set who up?” Matt walked into the room in time to overhear the tail end of the conversation.

  “No one.” Ainsley hoped to divert the question with another question. “You know Peyton O’Reilly, don’t you, Matt?”

  “Yes, and if she’s your next target for matrimony, more power to you. Although I will feel exceedingly sorry for the guy who winds up with her.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and came to the table. Matt always did meals, and most everything else, in steps. He didn’t like to rush. Ainsley admired that, wished she could be less impulsive, more deliberate. But Ivan said she was perfect the way she was, so maybe it was Matt who needed to be a little impulsive.

  “Miss O’Reilly,” Matt continued, “has been a pain in my side since the first day she showed up at the Foundation and signed up for the volunteer program.”

  “She’s perfectly lovely, Matt,” Ainsley protested. “I’ve been working with her all summer and I like her very much. You’d like her, too, if you’d take the time to talk to her.”

  “I talk about her more than I want to already. She seems to have a way of annoying the other volunteers with her little projects.”

  “She’s eager, that’s all.”

  Andrew paused in his manly efforts to polish off the first round of breakfast and gave his twin a calculating look. “Mom and Dad would like her.”

  Ainsley lifted her chin, not giving anything away. She hoped. “Peyton’s doing a great job in organizing the Black and White Ball, Matt. I think it’s going to be one of the best we’ve ever had.”

  “And it’s too late to replace her.” Matt took a sip of his coffee and reached for the front page of the paper. “Which is the only reason I haven’t passed along the complaints to her. I’m afraid she’ll get her feelings hurt and quit. Then I’d have to find someone else to organize the fund-raiser. Or talk Miranda into doing it.”

  “Don’t even think about asking her.”

  Matt flicked the paper into a comfortable reading position. “Miranda loves challenges. She likes nothing better than to step into a project someone else has abandoned. That’s her idea of fun. Where is she, by the way?”

  “As it happens, that was the question on the table when you came in. This is the third morning this week she’s missed breakfast.” Andrew pushed back his chair and made a second trip to the sideboard, casting a sly glance over his shoulder. “Baby was just about to expound on the possibilities. Weren’t you, Ains?”

  Honestly, some days—every day, really—she was so looking forward to her wedding. “Our sister is out having a life of her own. Finally,” she said.

  Andrew laughed.

  Matt smiled. “Where is she really?” he asked.

  “She’s gone to the Cape for a couple of days,” Ainsley replied, thinking her brothers took her sister too much for granted and deserved to be startled out of their complacency. “With Nate Shepard.”

  Matthew put down the newspaper. Andrew brought his plate—full, again—back to the table. They both looked at Ainsley expectantly.

  She waited them out.

  “Has she ever taken a man to the beach house before?” Matt posed this question to Andrew.

  “Not that I know of,” came the answer. “And he did spend the night here, with his kids, last weekend.” Andrew looked again at Ainsley. “Did they take his kids?”

  Her brothers were so unimaginative. They saw Miranda as a sister, a helpful overseer, the organizer of everyday details in their lives. And were they in for a rude awakening if—when—this match worked out. Which was looking more and more possible to Ainsley’s practiced eye. “I believe Nate’s children are in school and he does have a nanny for them, so no, I imagine Nate and Miranda are alone. And it isn’t as if he spent the night here with her. There was a fire, you know.”

  “A little more than that, apparently.” Matt frowned. “Did you have anything to do with this, Ainsley?”

  “With what?”

  “The trip
to the beach house.”

  “No,” she said defensively. Although that part, at least, was true. Miranda hadn’t consulted her. Not as a matchmaker, which was the way Matt saw it. Not as a sister, which was the way Ainsley wished she might have been consulted. Miranda had simply walked into Ainsley’s bedroom the night before and told her she’d be leaving early the next morning and would be away overnight. Possibly longer. She’d seemed rather tense about it, too, but Ainsley had known better than to comment on that. And, as she’d already had a phone call from Cate Shepard, giving her the lowdown from that end, she’d already figured out something was up. Nate, of course, had simply told his children he was going to buy the furniture for the coffeehouse. But from Miranda’s jumpy mood ever since the fire, it wasn’t hard to read a different agenda into this sudden buying trip.

  And Ainsley was a matchmaker. Her mind ran along a romantic track on a daily basis. “They’re going to buy some furniture for his coffeehouse,” she said as if there couldn’t possibly be any other reason for the trip to the Cape. Which could be true. Even a full-fledged matchmaker wouldn’t have been able to predict the course of the relationship. As Ilsa was fond of saying, once the possibilities had been set in motion, the only thing left to do was step back and observe what happened. “It’s business.”

  And, hopefully, pleasure as well.

  “Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” Andrew’s appetite returned. “I thought for a minute Miranda was hooking up with the old guy.”

  “He’s not that old.”

  “He’s older than Matt.”

  “And he has children.” Matt raised his coffee cup and returned his attention to the newspaper. “Miranda doesn’t want to have children of her own, much less someone else’s.”

  “Who said?” Ainsley asked, wondering where Matt had gotten that idea. Just because he’d always claimed not to want marriage or a family didn’t mean Miranda felt that way. “Has she ever said that?”

  “Yes,” Matt replied.

  “Only all the time.” Realizing he’d forgotten to refill his glass, Andrew reached across and swiped Ainsley’s orange juice. “But if she’s just helping him get the coffeehouse set up, then that’s all right. Bad timing for you, though, Baby.”