The Matchmaker's Sister

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  Ainsley got up, walked to the door between the morning room and the kitchen, and asked their houseboy—a new trainee, only recently arrived at Danfair—to bring out some more orange juice. “Why bad timing for me?” she asked when she was seated again. “Miranda being gone for a couple of days doesn’t affect me.”

  “The wedding,” Andrew explained. “I thought she’d be systematically ironing out the details for your wedding instead of taking on a new project. You know how involved she gets in whatever she’s doing and, contrary to her belief that she can do twenty things at once, all of them perfectly, she does have her limitations.”

  “Oh, that,” Ainsley said with a laugh. “She’s already given me lists of last-minute details I need to take care of, and it’s only a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?”

  MIRANDA KNEW how to plan a wedding. She knew how to design a garden that would take a viewer’s breath away. She knew how to pull separate elements into a whole. She had an eye for color, a flare for design. She was great at prioritizing, organizing and setting agendas. Give her a notepad and a pencil and she could plot out a plan for doing almost anything.

  But she didn’t have a clue how to plan a seduction.

  It had taken her just twenty-four hours after that kiss in the hallway, after Nate had sent her to bed alone, to reach the conclusion that seduction was her best option. Denying the attraction seemed pointless. Every time he came near her, she melted into a rather obvious puddle of willingness. Avoiding him would be childish, requiring evasive tactics she had neither the energy nor patience to carry out. Telling him openly and honestly that she wasn’t interested in a relationship with him would only be a lie…and one he’d undoubtedly call her on.

  She hadn’t felt this out of control for a long time. A very long time. And never with a man.

  Except maybe once.

  Nate’s brother, Nick, had held a mysteriously magnetic attraction for her. Of course, she’d been a teenager and he’d been gorgeous, even then. And charming. And able to sound so convincing, Miranda had long since forgiven herself for falling for his lines. It had been no surprise to her he’d become a successful actor.

  After Nicky, though, she’d always maintained a level head, never losing control, never falling further into love than she wanted. Which was probably why her relationships with men, for the most part, had been relatively harmless. A few months of dating, some laughs, some meaningful moments, but ultimately nothing she was ready to move heaven and earth to keep. Even when she’d found a man she thought she could love enough to marry, she hadn’t surrendered the piece of herself that needed to be in charge. And when their engagement ended, she was wounded, but not truly grief-stricken. Maybe she had felt she couldn’t commit to a family of her own when she was still the centerpiece of the family she had. Maybe she’d just been afraid to take the risk that, when push came to shove, her sister and brothers could—and would—do quite nicely without her. Whatever the foundation of her decision, she’d always felt serene confidence in knowing she had the power to decide how far things went, when and where they stopped.

  And that’s how it would have to be with Nate.

  Even if he did have a strangely debilitating effect on her resolve.

  A strangely familiar effect.

  Nicky Shepard had been her first tryst with love. With lust, more aptly. A rush of teenage hormones mixed with poor judgment on her part, raw sexual appeal on his. Not that their great love affair had ever progressed beyond a few—okay, a lot of—hot, exploratory kisses and a good deal of frustration. She’d spent most of her time corralling his roving hands, while he’d spent his testing to see what else he could get away with. They’d been teens and without much sense of the trouble they were courting, but somehow Miranda had managed to pull back from the promise of passion and the lack of control it exercised over her. She hadn’t liked that restless, reckless feeling and she’d never let things get so heated since.

  Until now…when with a few practiced kisses—and not a single instance of roving hands—Nate made her remember the exhilaration of that first, breathtaking experience. He made her think letting go was desirable, that surrendering control would bring pleasure, that acquiescence offered sweet freedom from responsibility. She recognized that temptation, the soft enticement of it, and felt its seductive power even now. Except she was older, smarter, no longer a curious, clueless teen. She had learned that in this game of attraction, someone had to take charge.

  And, if there was one thing Miranda knew, it was how to be in charge.

  So she would use the attraction to put an end to the speculation on her part that this “thing” with Nate was any more dangerous than the fleeting desire she’d once felt for his brother. No more, no less. So if a relationship was going to develop—and she had admitted the appeal of that possibility to herself within the contemplation of those twenty-four hours—then the only question, in her mind, was who defined the terms. And as allowing Nate to decide when, where and how far things went seemed unpredictable and could prove hazardous, she meant to avert disaster by taking charge of their affair.

  Affair.

  The very thought of it had her trembling. Which had never happened to her before and was not conducive to forming a plan. She needed a plan. An outline for seduction. A time. A place. The right atmosphere. A list.

  She needed a list.

  1. Place

  a) Private

  b) Romantic

  c) Within driving distance of home

  2. Day/Time

  a) Overnight?

  (Yes, definitely. Expecting less smacks of no courage!)

  3. Amenities

  a) Fresh linens

  b) Lingerie (sexy or simply nice?)

  a. Do not want to appear overeager

  b. Shopping?

  c) Food

  a. Convenient (Too much preparation suggests nervousness)

  b. Crackers/cheese (?)

  c. Nate might prefer clams

  d) Wine (Cabernet or a nice Riesling)

  a. Corkscrew (in case we’re away from the house)

  b. Wineglasses (same reason)

  e) Music

  a. Take CDs—not Bee Gees

  b. Classical, perhaps

  f) Flowers

  a. Ask Teresa (cottage housekeeper) to arrange

  4. Necessities (!!)

  a) Protection

  b) Protection

  c) Protection

  THE LIST SEEMED woefully inadequate, however, when Nate—all six foot something of him—was scrunched beside her in the snug interior of her little Mercedes. The idea was hers, so it was only fair that she should drive. At least, that’s what she’d told him when she suggested this buying trip. He hadn’t seemed to mind, had simply seemed happy that she had agreed to help him find some suitable furnishings for the coffeehouse. If he noticed her distracted attempts at normal conversation, he didn’t let on. They’d talked, of course—she wasn’t completely stifled by nerves!—about the coffeehouse and possible contemporary stylings they might consider, places he’d lived, places she’d visited, his mother, her parents, his children, her brothers, Ainsley. Nate was easy to talk to, interesting and interested, intelligent and thoughtful, as eager to know her opinions as to express his own. But the really amazing thing to Miranda was that he seemed just as comfortable, just as easy, whether it was conversation or silence that ebbed and flowed between them. Nate was, simply, good company.

  They spent the morning in Boston, looking at some of the more modernistic pieces she thought might work in the coffeehouse, ordered three S-shaped sofas—one in red, one in lavender, one an odd green-gold color—five mosaic tables with chairs, a dozen overstuffed chairs in various stripes and patterns, and a black-and-white-tiled oblong bar. Nate thought of adding ornamental track lighting, and they spent an hour debating the right size and shape. They ate a late lunch and headed for Cape Cod, where they arrived to find the art gallery she preferred already closed for the day. Sticking to he
r plan despite a surfeit of doubts, Miranda asked if Nate would mind stopping at the family beach house before going back to Newport. He’d given her an odd, questioning look at that point, one she didn’t allow herself to analyze, but she’d gone on, ignoring the question in his eyes, airily chatting about checking on the house, about the times…few though they had been…when her family had used the house and spent a day or two at the Cape.

  “Andy loves it here.” Miranda unlocked the door and threw it open, inviting Nate inside. “He has ever since he was a little guy. I don’t know why, exactly. It doesn’t have any of the kid appeal of Danfair, and while the view here is nice, we do have a pretty spectacular one at home.” She closed the door, allowing the intimacy of the cottage to surround them, hoping the seclusion would begin to ease her tension. “But Andrew loves it and comes here quite a lot on his own. More than the rest of us of put together. I’m not sure if it’s the scenic photo ops around Cape Cod Bay or the solitude of the house itself that appeals most to him.”

  Nate didn’t comment, just looked around the open living, dining and kitchen area with obvious interest.

  “Mom inherited this house from her grandfather,” Miranda continued. “I think that’s probably the only reason we still have it. My mother isn’t sentimental about a lot of things. And, of course, Andrew would have a fit if they tried to sell it. This will probably be his one day. He’s the obvious one to have it. The only one of us, really, who genuinely loves being here.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t like it, Miranda,” Nate said, giving her an odd look. Sort of like the earlier odd look, but different, too. “This seems like the perfect place to relax and escape from your responsibilities for a while.”

  Her laugh sounded nervous even to her own ears. “I’m not into escape,” she responded blithely. “I’m too practical for the beach house and I almost never relax.”

  The curve of his smile chided her softly. “All the more reason to grab a few stolen hours by the sea when the opportunity arises. Relaxation is a state of mind, you know. One that is well worth learning.”

  “Did they teach you that in the air force?”

  “No, Angie taught me that.”

  “Was she good at it?”

  “Relaxing?” He shook his head. “No, she was terrible at it. Never still, never satisfied unless she was up and doing something. But when she got sick, time became the enemy, began running out faster than we could catch it, and she had to learn to be quiet, to rest. Just sitting with her taught me the intrinsic value of living in the moment.” His gaze caught hers, held it. “Close your eyes, Miranda,” he said. “Listen. Feel the quiet.”

  Obediently, her eyes closed. She listened. The sound of the water lapping against the piers outside. The creak of wood grown old around her. The thud-thud beating of her heart. She felt. The cool air off the bay seeping past the windows and into the house. The familiar yearning for unity and connection…all of her family around her, mother, father, sister, brothers, the grandfather she barely remembered, the grandmother she had never known. She opened her eyes…and Nate was there, waiting.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “Nice,” she answered. “But as for living in the moment, I think I trust the noisy moments more than I do the peaceful ones.”

  His smile slipped past her boundaries, into her heart. “So do I,” he admitted. “Most of the time. And that I learned from my kids.”

  A shiver of anticipation slipped down her spine. She wanted this…wanted him more than she had let herself believe. Which seemed suddenly a scary thing.

  “This is nice.” He ran his hand across the slatted back of a chair, a chair that was older than them both. “Maybe we should have designed the coffee house with this cozy, beachy feel instead of going for the art deco look.”

  “You can call and cancel the furniture orders,” she said. “But I warn you, beach-house chic will require more painting.”

  “No purple walls?”

  “A softer shade, anyway.”

  “A romantic lavender instead of the passionate grape we now have, you mean.”

  Her gaze followed his long fingers as he stroked the burled wood and a knot of apprehension budded in her throat. She didn’t have the courage to do this. What if the attraction was all in her head? What if he was surprised and unreceptive to her ideas of seduction? What if all her planning offended him?

  This was not a good idea. This was too calculating, too planned, too…risky. What had she been thinking? Believing she could be in charge of something as unpredictable as another person’s feelings. This was wrong. She’d been wrong. Not everything could…or should…be done with a list.

  “Everything looks great,” she said brightly, not having moved from the door. “We can go now. I can tell Andrew I checked and everything was fine. Just fine. Of course, we have someone who takes care of the house. But he wanted me to check while I was close. So now I have.” She wouldn’t look at Nate. Couldn’t, as she reached behind her, grasped the doorknob, thought she might just escape unscathed. “Are you ready?”

  The pause was pregnant, the room flooded with a soft, strange tension. “Should we…take the flowers?” he asked slowly.

  Flowers. Fresh flowers. Put there, at her request, by Teresa, the woman who looked after the cottage.

  “Seems a shame to let something so beautiful die unappreciated and alone,” he added.

  She lifted her chin, fought to maintain a nonchalant smile, but her gaze touched his, turned cowardly and skittered to the bouquet. From the corner of her eye, she saw him make a slight sweep of one hand.

  “It seems to me,” he continued in a considering tone, “the reason that corkscrew and those two wineglasses were left out on the counter is because there’s a bottle of wine around here somewhere. And I have this crazy idea that if I snapped my fingers, the lights would dim and the music would start playing.”

  Miranda sighed, reluctantly met his eyes straight-on, noted the trace of humor in their whiskey-colored depths. Caught. And only inches from an exit, too.

  “I don’t know about you, Miranda, but I think your brother may be using the family cottage as a…a love nest.”

  Sometimes—not often, but definitely now—she wished she didn’t pay such close attention to detail. “The flowers do tend to indicate a certain premeditation, don’t they?”

  His nod was solemn as he walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, found the wine. “Mmm,” he said over his shoulder. “A Riesling. Nice.”

  It was better than nice. Exquisite. Extra dry. Exotic. She knew because she’d chosen the vintage herself, had it sent ahead. “Oh,” she said. “Hmm.”

  “There’s cheese in here, too. Chilled shrimp. Something chocolate. This is a scene set for seduction, no doubt about it.” He closed the refrigerator door, raised his eyebrows at her, moved around the breakfast bar and down the hall…where she knew he’d see the bed, freshly made, turned down, ready for action.

  Humiliation rose like a flag in her cheeks. Guilty, it waved. Guilty of unfettered planning. Guilty of thinking she could manipulate something as tempestuous as lust. Guilty of overthinking what naturally could have happened so simply. How had she believed, even for a second, this would work?

  Nate returned. “You shouldn’t go in there,” he said, indicating the bedroom down the hall. “Not alone, anyway. I’m afraid it confirms our suspicions.”

  “It does?”

  “The sheets are satin. Red satin.”

  That had not been on the list. She would be talking to Teresa about that particular detail for sure. She cleared her throat, found it easy to look appalled. “Andrew has always had abysmal taste in bed linens.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Nate said, coming closer. “I think they show his artistic bent…and a willingness to live on the edge.”

  “I hardly think sheets can offer any deep insight.”

  He stopped in front of her. He didn’t touch her, but then, he didn’t really need to. She was
trembling already at the thought that he might. “I disagree,” he said. “I think sheets can be very revealing.”

  She made a futile attempt to hold her ground. “I had nothing to do with those sheets, Nate.”

  He lifted his eyebrows in a question, but his eyes offered a warm, sure encouragement.

  No guts, no glory, she thought with a sigh. “I might have asked Teresa to change the bed linens,” she admitted. “But I swear I didn’t know about the satin sheets.”

  “What about the wine? The cheese? The chocolate?”

  “It’s possible Andrew keeps the refrigerator stocked, the glasses out and ready.”

  He nodded. “I imagine he could have a standing order for fresh flowers, too. Just in case.”

  The blush fanned out across her cheeks in a rosy warmth. “I…I might have ordered those, myself.”

  “I hope you did, Miranda. I sincerely hope that you did.” He reached up, tenderly stroked her cheek with roughly textured knuckles. “Because I’ve never slept on satin sheets before and I’ve always thought I’d like it.”

  “I don’t know why,” she said, practicality reasserting itself. “Satin is very cool to the touch. And too slick for comfortable sleep.”

  “I wasn’t, entirely, thinking about sleeping.”

  “Oh.” The tension snapped to attention, wove like a soft scent between them. “Well, in that case, I might have arranged for the wine and the food, as well. Would you like some?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied, desire appearing first within the golden flecks of his eyes, before it touched his lips and drew his smile into a solemn, settled line. “Later.” His hands slid around her waist, drew her unresisting body against him. “And, just so you know, Miranda. I’d have been more than flattered if all you’d done was remember to bring the key.”

  His nearness made it impossible to think. The moment surrounded her, as elusive as the sound of the surf outside, as sweet as a baby’s sigh. “I’ve carried the key in my purse all week,” she confessed, feeling he deserved to know.