The Matchmaker's Plan

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

Peyton slipped off her cloak, stood holding it self-consciously, not sure if there was a coat closet nearby or if she was expected to keep it with her in her room. The staff at Danfair wasn’t expected to be front and center every time a family member returned home, as Connie insisted on in the O’Reilly household. The only Danville employee Peyton had met so far was a young man from Guatemala, whose main job, it appeared, was learning English. Matt had introduced him as Frederico, asked him a question in Spanish, and then complimented him on his halting, almost incomprehensible English answer.

  There was no pretense in this house, no effort to showcase the family’s wealth with designer rooms and furnishings meant to be admired and appreciated for their expensive luster. Peyton could feel the difference here. It was a mood, as much as anything, a sense of great love and gratitude for the blessings held within these walls. Four children had grown up here, basically making and breaking their own rules. The remnants of that life were still strewn about—the toys and games, the croquet set. Her mother was right about one thing. Danfair was a mess. A mess composed of memories and laughter and a close-knit, loving family. A mess made by four children who somehow managed to spin their straw into gold. And, for Peyton, that’s what made the difference. That’s what made it a home.

  “Miranda’s staying with the Shepards this week,” Matt continued. “Nate’s mother is home from Florida for the holidays and they have family activities planned for tomorrow.”

  Was he pointing out to her—in a decidedly offhand manner—that they were alone in the house tonight? Was he indicating, perhaps, he didn’t want to sleep alone, in their adjoining, but separate, bedrooms? A quiver of possibilities skittered all the way from her head to her toes. She hesitated, nervous energy making her restless, uncertain. “Miranda’s inherited quite a family. I can’t imagine having one set of twins, much less two.”

  He set aside a magazine, one of many in the mail that had accumulated during their week away from Newport, and answered only absently. “And one set are thirteen, going on thirty.”

  “Thirteen is a difficult age.”

  “Yes,” Matt agreed, although she doubted he even knew what she’d said.

  Then again, she wasn’t really saying anything. Just filling an awkward moment with empty conversation.

  “We’re invited.” He began sifting larger envelopes into one pile, smaller into another. “If you want to go.”

  “Where?”

  “To the Shepards. Tomorrow.”

  “What for?”

  He glanced at her, as if she hadn’t been paying attention. “It’s New Year’s Day, Peyton. Families get together. Eat dinner. Watch football.” His expression changed suddenly, became politely wary. “You, uh, weren’t planning for us to spend the holiday tomorrow with your family, were you?”

  “No,” she said quickly, wanting that even less than he did. After tonight, she’d really rather not see anyone for several days. But she definitely wasn’t going anywhere near her mother. “No. We can spend the day with Nate and Miranda, if you’d like.”

  He went back to sorting the mail into separate stacks. “I think that ought to be your decision, Peyton.”

  “Then I’d prefer to stay here.”

  He nodded, giving no indication if he’d have preferred to go or stay.

  “You can go without me,” she suggested, knowing she’d hate it if he did. “I don’t mind.”

  The corners of his lips tipped up in a slight smile as he singled out one envelope to open. “That would look a little odd, considering we haven’t even been married a whole week yet.”

  It struck her that her married life was going to be a repeat of her years of living with her mother—where every choice was based on how it might appear to someone else. “We can go, if you’d rather,” she offered.

  “I’d rather not,” he said absently, reading the letter he’d pulled out of the envelope. “Tonight was more than enough socializing for me. I thought midnight would never come.”

  She had felt the same, and yet, hearing him voice relief that their first appearance as a couple was over stirred her own dissatisfaction. “I’m going to bed,” she said firmly, frustrated by his lack of attention and her need for it. She wanted kisses, fevered caresses, mindless, melting passion. She wanted to exhaust her restlessness in his bed, find a release for her pent up emotions, and…yes…punish him for kissing Jessica. Which she suddenly realized bothered her more than it should. More even than her mother’s awful comments. If he offered even a minimum of encouragement, she would show him she was twice the woman Jessica was. Ten times. A hundred times.

  “I’m going to bed,” she repeated.

  He didn’t even glance up at her over the top of the stupid letter. “Good night, then.”

  Obviously, he had no thought of sweeping her off her feet and carrying her up the stairs to bed. He hadn’t carried her over the threshold, either. At Danfair or at the Niagara Falls house. Which might be expecting a little too much from a temporary husband, she supposed. But she couldn’t keep from sighing, long and deeply, as she marched past him. And she couldn’t help letting the cloak swish against the backs of his pant legs with a seductive whisper…or allowing it to droop behind her in a sifting kaleidoscope of color when he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Peyton?”

  Halfway up the stairs, she turned, her hand on the curved banister, the cloak draping around her feet in an iridescent pool, hating herself for feeling so hopeful, so desperately needy. “Yes?”

  “Good job tonight. I think we pulled it off.”

  The words, the tone, the message were all wrong. It felt too much like an afterthought, a pat on the head from a condescending uncle. “Do you really, Matt?” she asked coolly.

  His eyebrows rose at the sarcasm in her voice. “Well, I did until just this minute.”

  The anger was back suddenly. Bathed in disappointment. Colored with frustration. Tainted by the desire she couldn’t seem to banish. But anger, nonetheless. “Well, I think actions speak louder than words.”

  His forehead furrowed, as if he was replaying the evening, looking for anything he might have missed. “Are you saying my actions left something to be desired?”

  He had a lot of nerve to sound so offended. “Hmm, let me think,” she said, deliberately baiting him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I believe they did. I believe they left a lot to be desired.”

  “Meaning what?”

  How could he pretend he didn’t know to what she was referring? But then, he was very good at pretending. Witness how warm and caring he’d been in front of an audience, how cool and quiet in the car coming home. “Meaning I saw you and Jessica.”

  “Jessica?” His tone was all confused innocence, as if he didn’t—couldn’t—remember. “Dancing?”

  “A little more than that. You kissed her.”

  “I did not. She kissed me.”

  Peyton swished the cloak until it made a silky hiss of disagreement. “Well, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Irritation rumbled in his voice, warned her.

  “Oh, that’s good, Matthew. I believe you are getting this marriage act down pat. Why, that sounded just like a husband, falsely accused and having to defend his exemplary actions.”

  He moved toward her like a thundercloud, then abruptly stopped three stair steps below her. Her heart was in her throat, her pulse racing as she waited, watching while he stroked his jaw and the muscle clenching there. “I can’t believe you’re bringing this up now.”

  She lifted her shoulder in a shrug she knew he’d find annoying. “Now seems as good a time as any. Unless you’d rather explain yourself to my sister.”

  “I have no intention of explaining anything I do to Scarlett. What does she have to do with this, anyway?”

  His anger was rising. Peyton could feel the heat of it, the intensity of his battle to keep from losing patience with her. They’d been in this position before. Many times. But it had always centered around the Foundation,
the way he let Jessica run roughshod over the staff, while sweet-talking her way around the volunteers. It hadn’t been so…personal. Exhilarating, yes. Exciting, too. Flirting with the attraction, masking it with argument, skirting passion with agitation. But never before so intensely personal. And Peyton, rashly, gave it another push. “Scarlett saw you kiss Jessica,” she said. “And she is sorely disappointed in you.”

  “Disappointed!” His hand ransacked his hair. The muscle in his jaw snapped taut. Then he was beside her, his eyes blazing with a week’s worth of aggravation. “I didn’t do anything. If you’d had the sense to act like the besotted wife you’re supposed to be, you’d have told your sister that even if I had kissed someone else—which I didn’t—it meant nothing. Absolutely nothing!”

  “I told her. She didn’t believe it, either.”

  “Look,” he said, his breathing roughened, his voice terse and controlled, obviously losing his battle to stay calm. The heat between them rose like a fever. “I do not want to argue with you about Jessica. Not again.”

  “Then you probably shouldn’t have kissed her,” she pointed out reasonably.

  “I didn’t—” He broke off the denial and his fingers raked though his hair again, leaving it attractively disheveled. “I was looking everywhere for you,” he explained slowly, restraining his temper with obvious effort. “Jessica snagged me and it was either dance with her or snub her, so I danced. I was walking away from her, coming to look for you, in fact, when the new year arrived, and in the excitement, she kissed me. I forgot it even happened. That’s how unimportant it was to me.”

  “Yes,” Peyton agreed with a cool smile. “The unimportance is certainly what I noticed from where I stood. I imagine that’s what struck everyone else who saw the kiss, as well.”

  “Jessica is married.”

  “So are you.”

  He very nearly touched her then. His hand lifted to within an inch of her arm, hovered there, hesitated. She stood still and breathless, yearning her way into that touch, longing for the moment when their anger would give way to something else, something stronger than the tension, something earthy and elemental and wild. She nearly gave herself away with a startled jerk when his hand dropped abruptly back to his side.

  “It’s been a long week, Peyton. Tonight was a strain for both of us. Let’s not end our first night at home in a fight.”

  She wanted to fight him, pummel him with her fists until he stopped her…and jerked her into his arms…and kissed her senseless. “It’s a little late for that now,” she challenged.

  “I suppose you expect an apology.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, too.”

  The anger heated up again, rising faster now, like water returned to the fire for a second boil. The tension escalated into vibrations as taut as violin strings and just as capable of producing sweet music. Soaring, passionate, pounding music. Until that night on Cape Cod, Peyton hadn’t known it could happen like that, hadn’t understood the territory they’d been traveling for months. She hadn’t realized there could be a moment when everything changed, when one emotion gave way to another, and surrender was far more intriguing than making her point. She hadn’t recognized that the chemistry that sparked their heated exchange of opinions fueled a desire that had been present all along, masked as aggravation and annoyance. They’d argued about Jessica that night, too. And beneath the words, which had made about as much sense at the time as these did tonight, was the red-hot attraction they both kept trying to ignore.

  Well, she wasn’t ignoring it tonight. Her blood pulsed with awareness and she couldn’t pretend she was capable of ignoring anything about him. From the strong set of his jaw, to the dishevelment of his hair, to the way his broad chest rose and fell with agitation. Just as it had the night at the beach house. She understood what could happen this time…and no matter how much she might like to deny it, she wanted it to happen again. She wanted to feel, wanted to touch something tangible and real, needed to know she was still inside this body that felt lately unlike her own.

  Lifting her chin, she met his eyes squarely, honestly, and saw in their midnight depths that he understood, too. For a moment—no longer than it took for a breath—their gaze held and the temptation beckoned. Her heart beat out the invitation, her cloak rustled a nervous appeal, her lips parted, waiting and ready.

  But he stepped back. “Go to bed, Peyton.”

  She couldn’t believe it. He’d argued with her, brought her to the edge…and left her hanging. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You’ve made a lot of changes this week,” he said. “You need to think very long and hard before you go making another one tonight.”

  “I don’t want to think, Matt.”

  He held her through the sheer persuasive power in his eyes. “Yes, you do, Peyton. Trust me. Now, go to bed. Please.”

  It was the please that did it. The genuine longing in his voice, the honest concern. He didn’t want to make another mistake. He didn’t want her to have another regret. So, okay, she’d go upstairs and she’d think. She owed him—and their marriage—a decent interval of consideration, she supposed, before she starting changing the rules. He was being responsible, rational, pragmatic. She could take some time to think about what she really wanted.

  By the time he came upstairs to bed, she felt pretty sure she’d have reached a reasonable conclusion.

  “Happy New Year, husband,” she said. And turning, she left him to watch her ascent, the iridescent cloak shimmering with promises in her wake.

  MATT WATCHED HER until she turned at the landing, then resolutely went back to the mail. A pointless task, as it turned out, because his mind was preoccupied with reviewing the lovely curve of her back and the intriguing sway of her hips as she’d climbed the stairs, the random flash of shapely legs he’d been able to glimpse inside the slit that ran up the back seam of her gown from the hemline to well above her knees. His inner eye traced a pleasurable vee up one shapely leg and down the other, lingering slightly at the inner curve of those knees, the glimpse of blue fabric just visible between them. A beautiful thing, he thought, that distance between, a space not even half as wide as a man’s outstretched hand, and yet so tantalizing, so tempting. It was the kind of image that drove a man mad, had him wondering what was wrong with him that he’d sent her to bed alone, had him questioning what was so noble about being sensible.

  She’d been inviting him to bed. No question about that. Which was not what he’d expected. Not after the evening they’d had. Not after the stress of the past week, the strain of the weeks before that. Dealing with a life-altering situation, making choices that would affect not just their futures but that of their child didn’t come without considerable cost. He felt it in the tension across his neck and shoulders, the uptight, unsettled state of his nerves. Peyton had to be experiencing all that stress, plus the added strain of the physical changes taking place in her body. This was not the night for either one of them to be thinking about…well, about anything except sleep. Once she was in her room, he knew she’d be grateful he’d had the strength to resist temptation and send her to bed. Alone.

  They had a year and seven months to sort out this wayward attraction, a lifetime to pay for giving in to it once. Allowing it to get the better of them now, when they were both vulnerable, wasn’t smart. But knowing that didn’t stop the low throb of desire from radiating heat and frustration through his body. His memory replayed the sight of her moving up the stairs, away from him, her shiny cloak rustling behind her.

  Follow me. Follow me.

  And he had wanted to. He had really, truly wanted to.

  With a sigh, he tossed down the mail, not caring when it scattered across the credenza and several pieces fluttered to the floor. He was going to bed. That was the smart thing to do. He’d go upstairs, take a shower and get into bed.

  Happy New Year, husband.

  “Happy New Year, wife,” he muttered as he headed up the stairs. “Happy damn New Year.”


  PEYTON STOOD by the door connecting her room to Matt’s. The shower was still running, the rush of water in the pipes the only sound in the quiet house. Except, perhaps, for the arrhythmic beating of her heart. He’d been in the shower a long time now. Or, at least, it felt like a long time. An eternity in some ways.

  She was prepared for him, ready to answer any protest he made with logical insistence. We’re married, Matt. I didn’t go into this thinking it would be a platonic relationship. We’re adults. Healthy adults. Given the strength of our physical attraction to each other, I’d have been an idiot to believe sex wouldn’t be a part of this…arrangement. The idea must have occurred to you, too.

  Oh, yes. She had her argument all prepared. And just in case he proved difficult to convince, she’d slipped into the black silk nightie for added emphasis. It was a little tight across her breasts, which were swollen, but no longer as tender as they’d been in the first weeks of the pregnancy. Hopefully, he’d notice their rather prominent invitation first and the need for persuasion would be a moot point.

  A bit nervously, she smoothed the silk for the hundredth time since she’d heard the shower start, and adjusted the neckline a little lower. When all else fails, show more cleavage. Michelle’s advice floated from some distant past into her consciousness and she smiled. Her best friend had always been the aggressive one. Peyton had always been shy about showing any part of her ample bosom, but Michelle, who had the slim, athletic build of a gymnast, routinely bared her small cleavage to good advantage. She’d be amazed to see Peyton now, tugging at the lacy vee, pushing and prodding her breasts until they practically spilled over the top. But then, she’d be amazed to know Peyton had found a man who aroused her sexuality to the point where inhibitions foundered and willpower turned from restraint to plotting ambush.

  Peyton was a little amazed herself.

  But even when she heard the water shut off and her nerves kicked into overdrive, she didn’t even consider not opening the door. It was as if she had no alternative but to go to him and offer herself freely. If she went to bed, she wouldn’t sleep. If she slept, it would only be to dream of lying with him on passion-soaked sheets. Imagination had its place, but when reality was right next door, fantasy lost a great deal of its appeal.