by Eliza Daly
If he did, Cassidy would discover it. She’d know everything about the city’s most eligible bachelor before she married him off.
She’d staked her reputation on it.
Chapter Four
Ryan Mitchell’s office looked vacant. The black leather couch and chairs appeared to have never met a client. Not a fingerprint or smudge tarnished the surface of the shiny, stainless steel file cabinets and desk. The only items on the desk were a silver computer monitor, a telephone, a silver clock shaped like a bull, and a penholder containing a half dozen identical gold pens. Boring. No photos of his aunt, buddies, or coworkers at the company Christmas party. The only photos were large black-and-white framed ones on the wall, including a tree in the middle of the Serengeti and the Eiffel Tower.
The office was void of personal effects but revealed plenty about the occupant. This guy was a perfectionist. He went to great lengths to maintain his privacy and probably wasn’t the easiest person to get to know. Cassidy had discovered that last night when she’d found almost zero personal info about him online.
When Milwaukee Beat magazine had designated him most eligible bachelor, he’d declined an interview. The article included basic facts she could Google out on the Internet. She needed the inside skinny on him. His favorite food, best memory, stuff like that. Finding this guy a wife wouldn’t be so easy if it weren’t for him being a gorgeous multimillionaire.
Cassidy opened the floor-to-ceiling blinds on the panoramic windows, attempting to add some warmth to the room. Sunlight rippled across Lake Michigan and into the office. Not quite seven, the sun rested low on the horizon, just waking up like much of the city. Although her upscale condo hadn’t been a lakefront penthouse—it had been on the Milwaukee River—she’d sit on the balcony, drinking in the view along with her morning coffee. A relaxing start to a day. Mmm . . .
Ryan marched in, cell phone glued to his ear. She snapped to attention. “The stock is going to take off today. Looks like the FDA is close to approving their new HIV drug. I guarantee . . . ” Halfway across the room, he noticed her and came to an abrupt halt. “Call you right back.” He disconnected, zoning in on her. “How’d you get in here?”
“Your office door wasn’t locked.”
“I’ll have a talk with security.”
“It’s going to be a gorgeous day.” She gestured toward the window, changing the subject. Weather was always a safe topic.
His gaze narrowed on the window, and he strode across the room toward her. He stopped just inches in front of her, and she backed up. The scent of musk filtered through her like a smooth cabernet. He reached toward her shoulder, causing her heart to race.
He tapped a finger on the window. “Damn seagulls.”
She’d been so caught up in the view, she hadn’t noticed a bird defaced the window.
“How dare it,” she managed to mutter.
He gazed down at her, his eyes filled with a sudden awareness of their close proximity. He slowly stepped back, appearing slightly unnerved. Avoiding her gaze, he gestured vaguely toward the window. “Swear I get these windows cleaned a dozen times a month.” He walked over to his desk and booted the computer. Business as usual. He was a bit more uptight than he’d been at his aunt’s funeral. “I thought we were meeting for lunch. My morning is booked.”
“I wanted to share the wonderful news in person. I was able to get Villa Luna for your wedding.” Cassidy bubbled with enthusiasm.
Ryan didn’t look nearly as thrilled.
“It’s the premier wedding venue. Haven’t you ever heard of it?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m familiar with it.”
Her typical clients would be jumping for joy over the location. A woman once had a complete meltdown when the space wasn’t available and fired Cassidy. She hired another planner—who also couldn’t secure the space. It was refreshing to not deal with a bridezilla, but it’d be nice if he cared a teensy bit.
“I’ll need a deposit before I can contract it.” She hadn’t held the space under her real name, not wanting every wedding vendor stalking her. “Oh, and you’ll have to get married on a Thursday.”
“A Thursday?”
“It was the only date available the beginning of December due to holiday parties. I’m thinking a Tuscan-style, Italian Christmas theme and—”
“See Alex about a deposit.”
His lack of enthusiasm dampened hers. “Perfect. If you plan to be engaged in twenty-one days, every minute counts.” She grabbed her pink faux alligator tote off the couch and pulled out a packet of papers. “Here’s a questionnaire to help me get to know you better.”
Although the Internet had been a poor resource for info on Ryan, the number of matchmaking companies out there was mind-boggling. Her only problem compiling a personality questionnaire was determining which of the hundreds of questions to exclude. By 2 a.m., she’d narrowed it down to 250 questions.
“You’ve been busy.” He scanned the first page. “My pet peeve is . . . ” He plucked a gold pen from his inside jacket pocket and jotted something down. “Here’s everything you need to know.”
Hmph. As if she couldn’t have guessed he hated nosy people.
“How am I supposed to find you a fiancée when I know little about you? I’ll be lucky to find you one potential match based on what I know, let alone five.” Also, the most creative holiday-themed wedding ever had to reflect his personality.
“Good thing I only need one.”
“You might only need one, but you have to have at least five to choose from. I’m not choosing her for you.” Cassidy would narrow down the best candidates possible, but she’d need to see Ryan and the woman interact before she could determine if they had a future.
“I trust . . . your judgment,” he said hesitantly, sitting at his desk. “This will probably be the easiest fifty grand you ever earn. Why make it difficult?”
“Because I take my work seriously.”
This would be the biggest wedding Milwaukee had seen in decades, and the divorce would get just as much exposure. Besides refusing to arrange a marriage doomed for divorce for ethical reasons, finding Milwaukee’s most eligible bachelor a mate only to have him divorce a year later would do little for her reputation as a matchmaker. She would find this guy’s soul mate whether he liked it or not.
“Fine,” he said, gazing over at her. “The woman has to be career driven, financially stable, and work in finance.”
“Sounds like an employment ad.”
He smiled. “More of a business partnership.”
“Certainly not a marriage.”
“Would you rather I wanted a woman who is lazy, a financial wreck, and doesn’t work?”
She scribbled his criteria on the questionnaire, even though it was a ridiculous request.
A petite woman in a conservative maroon suit marched in and handed Ryan a paper cup emitting steam and the aroma of strong coffee. He introduced her as his assistant, Melanie, and Cassidy as a “special project coordinator.”
He eyed the contents of the cup. “Doesn’t look like a triple.”
Melanie’s gaze sharpened behind the black rectangular glasses perched on her pug nose. “A double espresso is enough. I’m weaning you off.”
“Why not stick a syringe of adrenaline straight into your heart?” Cassidy asked him.
“Precisely,” Melanie said. “Like in Pulp Fiction.”
Cassidy cringed. “I about passed out when they did that.”
Melanie’s stern look evaporated into a smile. “Me too.”
The theme from The Love Boat blared from Ryan’s computer. She and Melanie peered over at the computer monitor. A cartoon cruise ship floated across the screen and read:
I’ll Be Your Lifejacket—Love, Veronica
Who was Veronica, and why did Ryan need a lifejacket?
Ryan double-clicked on the mouse, and the music ended. His gaze remained focused on the computer, avoiding her curious stare. “I need you to confirm my airline tick
et and reservations for the conference next week in Tokyo.”
“Sure you don’t want to go by boat?” Melanie asked.
“You can’t go to Tokyo,” Cassidy said. “You need to stay here if I’m going to find you a . . . new couch.” She peered over at his assistant. “I’m a decorator. Getting ideas for his office.”
“We’ll discuss that later.” He shot her a cautioning glance, then peered over at Melanie. “Book my flight out Friday evening. Make sure I get an aisle seat. Last time I was stuck in a window. And they ordered me a Hindu meal instead of seafood.”
“Why do you prefer an aisle seat?” Cassidy asked. “Claustrophobic?”
“No, I’m not claustrophobic.”
“Afraid of flying?”
“No,” he scoffed, as if the idea of him being afraid of anything was ridiculous. “It’s a thirteen-hour flight. I like to get up and walk around.”
She made note to serve seafood and no curry at his wedding. She’d get insight into him one way or the other. When she looked up, he was eyeing her suspiciously. She flashed him a smug grin.
“Since you won’t be attending the Children’s Medical Center benefit at the art museum this weekend, would you like to send a contribution?” Melanie asked.
“Send the cost of two tickets and my usual donation.”
“David Carlton, the organizer of the Circus Parade, called, wondering if you could take your aunt’s place as grand marshal.”
He shook his head. “Send a contribution.”
“Afraid of clowns,” Cassidy muttered, making a notation.
“I am not afraid of clowns.”
“Elephants?”
“Why are you so hell-bent on me being afraid of something?”
“Didn’t you go to the circus when you were little?” Cassidy asked.
“Of course. What kid didn’t?”
As if he’d had an average childhood.
“I bet you had the best seats at the Circus Parade and didn’t even have to camp out overnight downtown to get them.”
His defeated look told her she’d pegged that one.
“It’d be a nice tribute to your aunt,” Cassidy said.
Melanie nodded. “I agree.”
“I’m not riding in some tiny car packed with clowns.”
“Is afraid of clowns.” Cassidy underlined her previous notation.
“What does this have to do with decorating?” Ryan asked.
“I know not to hang clown pics on your walls.”
He let out a frustrated sigh, grabbed his portfolio off his desk, and headed toward the door. “I’m late for my meeting with Walter. Please make reservations for two at Valentino’s at noon. Also, get that crap cleaned off the window.” He glanced at Cassidy as he passed by. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
Cassidy had only been to Valentino’s once, for dinner with Nick. He’d caused such a scene when his steak was overcooked she hadn’t shown her face there in two years. Thoughts of their escargot floating in garlic butter made her mouth water.
Ryan disappeared down the hallway, and she walked out with Melanie to her desk. No way would she find a woman in twenty-one days at this rate. She’d get the inside scoop on Ryan with or without his help. She was resourceful, and desperate. Two great qualities to ensure success.
“Ryan wanted me to get started on my project, but I have more questions for him. He’s so busy, I don’t want to bother him.”
“He’s always busy. He’ll have a heart attack before he’s forty.” Melanie used a shoulder to push up her glasses while thumbing through a stack of files and opening her bottom desk drawer with the heel of her pump. “His meeting shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes max.” She slipped a file in the drawer, then slid it closed with her foot as she punched the button on her headset, answering the ringing phone. She jotted a message on a pink note, then hung up the phone, and continued their conversation where they’d left off. “Especially if he keeps drinking triple espressos.”
And just how many espressos did Melanie drink?
“He needs to drink ginseng tea,” Cassidy said. “It helps you relax and cope with stress.” It was also an aphrodisiac. The last thing this guy needed. “Or maybe . . . something else. I have a friend who’s an herbalist. I could have her run some tea over.”
“That’d be great.” Melanie eyed the ringing phone. “Have her bring me one too.”
If Lucy could breathe life into a funeral home with her feng shui, there was hope for Ryan Mitchell’s office.
• • •
A half hour later, Lucy breezed into the office, carrying several insulated cups. She left two with Melanie, who promised to start patronizing the café.
“At least it’s orderly.” Lucy’s gaze skittered around the room. “Hard for love to find its way into someone’s life if he lives among chaos. Yet it has some serious issues.” She studied the black-and-white photos on the wall. “Those have to go. Definitely symbols of singledom. Especially that tree, standing stoically in the middle of nowhere, needing nobody, surrounded by nothingness. How depressing. White is a good relationship color, but not black. Black’s more for one’s career. Pink and red are better for romance.”
“I think he’d freak if I replaced his photos with red and pink pictures.”
“At least get black-and-white photos of two lions under a tree or two lovers at the Eiffel Tower. Two is the relationship number. Not one.”
How would she change the pictures without him noticing?
Lucy analyzed the desk. “Its placement is good, facing the door, but again, the metal element is good for a career, but not for love. It’s competitive and business minded, and . . . cold. It needs an object to attract love.”
“Like something pink or red?”
“Or something that symbolizes romance.”
Cassidy removed a tube of hot pink lipstick from her briefcase. She glanced out at Melanie, whose gaze was glued to her computer monitor while she typed away at Mach one. Cassidy opened the top desk drawer to drop the tube in and discovered a framed photo of Ryan’s aunt.
“Why doesn’t he have that on his desk?” Lucy asked.
It wasn’t like people didn’t know he’d been related to the wealthiest woman in the city. Was he tucking it away with the pain he’d felt since her death? Hmm . . . Cassidy buried the lipstick at the back of the drawer.
Lucy smiled. “That works.” She walked over and swept a hand across the back of the couch. “Black can suck the energy out of a person. Please tell me he isn’t wearing a black suit.”
Cassidy nodded. “With a burgundy and black tie.”
“A little black is okay.” Lucy glanced down at the couch. “But this is way too much.”
“He’d definitely notice a red couch. He’s pretty sharp.”
Lucy flipped over a pillow, revealing a zipper on the back. “He won’t notice a red pillow if it’s inside a leather cover. My friend once placed a red thong under the mattress on her husband’s side of the bed and their sex life increased tenfold.”
She eyed Cassidy’s pink suede skirt.
“My thong’s black,” Cassidy said.
Lucy smirked. “Just his color.”
Ryan Mitchell would never see her thong, on or off. So why did the thought of him sliding it down her legs cause a tingling sensation in her inner thighs?
• • •
Lucy had likely made a narrow escape, passing Ryan in the hall as he headed back to his office. Melanie followed him in carrying a cup of tea.
“Charlie called twice,” Melanie said. “Needs you at your aunt’s place a.s.a.p.”
He glanced over at Cassidy seated on the couch, looking slightly annoyed by her presence. Melanie handed him the tea, and he took a drink as he sat.
“What the hell is this?”
“Good for you,” Melanie said.
He gave her a skeptical look, setting the cup on his desk. “Little old ladies drink tea.”
“You’ve never had a green tea
martini?” Cassidy asked. “It’s the cocktail du jour. Cures everything from a cough to cancer. Teahouses are popping up everywhere. You should consider investing in one.” She nodded at the logoed cup. “Like An Herb a Day Café.”
“Should have known you were involved in this.” He glanced over at Melanie. “I don’t have time to run over to my aunt’s. I’ve got clients scheduled back to back until eight tonight.”
“Fiona is up in a tree, and they can’t get her down.”
He tossed his pen on the desk. “Christ, what if she falls like Aggie did?”
Cassidy gestured to his cup. “Yerba Mate tea is great for stress.”
Ryan let out a defeated groan and slammed his tea.
Chapter Five
While growing up, when Ryan had a cold Fiona would create a disgusting concoction of carrageen moss simmered in water and lemon juice. A fever was remedied with a virtual feast, including shepherd’s pie, fish and chips, and a full Irish breakfast. When he’d had girl troubles, she’d add extra Guinness to her Irish stew, followed by whiskey cake for dessert. Fiona claimed good cooking could cure any problem.
Only problem was, Fiona’s cooking sucked.
But she’d always made sure he’d had a homemade meal. Just like Charlie, the chauffeur, had taught him to drive. Hector, the groundsman, had tutored him in Spanish. Charlotte, the housekeeper, had helped him pass home economics by sewing the required outfits. And his aunt Aggie had taught him to be an independent thinker. Together they’d all shown him the importance of family.
Like any family, they were a bit dysfunctional.
Fiona sat perched on a tree limb twenty feet up. She’d squeezed her plump figure into a pair of skin-tight purple velvet leggings. Her shiny, gold-colored blouse matched her high-heeled sandals. The black lace scarf on her head, along with the silver flask of whiskey in her hand, showed she was still in mourning.
“Fiona, please come down,” he called up to her.
“Why? So I can make me shepherd’s pie for the cats? Ack, I’ll stay right here.” Her Irish accent had faded some in the thirty years she’d been in the States. However, her Irish temper was as flaming as her bright red hair.