“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 th
e 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.”
The Matchmaker's Plan Page 3