How I Met Your Brother (Power of the Matchmaker)

by Janette Rallison

  The thought dissolved away as Dawson strode across the lobby, rolling a suitcase behind him. Even if she hadn’t been thinking about him, he was good-looking enough to stall any woman’s thoughts.

  His height and broad shoulders were exactly as she remembered. His features were still as striking, maybe more so now that a few strokes of maturity had been added to them. His light brown hair had grown darker and was cut shorter, making him look more professional and less like a jock. The jeans and T-shirt he’d worn in college as though they were a uniform, had been replaced by navy slacks and a button-down shirt. So business-y. That was a change.

  As he spoke with the hotel clerk, her eyes lingered on him. His movements were fluid, filled with confidence. And just like that, the feelings she’d buried in college resurfaced, full bloom—a garden of longings, wishes, and unspoken words. And insecurities. Those came back too. She watched him, and hesitated, pinned to the couch by self-doubt.

  Then she stood. She wouldn’t be invisible any more. She was someone to be reckoned with. She strolled across the lobby, putting herself in the path Dawson would have to take to reach the elevators.

  The hotel clerk handed him a key card and a map of the grounds. He turned and walked in Belle’s direction, his gaze on the map.

  Show time. This was what she’d come for. She swallowed and squared her shoulders.

  “Dawson,” she called in feigned surprise. “Is that you?”

  He looked up from the map and his blue eyes wandered over her. “Yes.” He must have liked what he saw, because a smile appeared on his lips. Not a smile of recognition, just a look of approval.

  She sauntered over, taking slow nonchalant steps. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me. I haven’t changed that much, have I?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Tell me who you are, and I’ll tell you how much you’ve changed.”

  His lack of recognition should have bothered her a little, but it felt like victory. Proof the mousy unnoticeable girl she’d been was gone. “Perhaps you recall our study group at WSU? Or the fact that I proofread your papers? You obviously don’t remember saying that you’d never forget me.”

  “Ah,” he said, with understanding. At least now he knew she wasn’t a stranger with a creative pickup line.

  “Perhaps you remember me introducing you to Daisy?”

  His eyes widened and his expression changed to something she couldn’t quite read. Was it astonishment? Disbelief? Regret?

  “Isabelle,” he uttered.

  She liked the way her name sounded on his lips. “I go by Belle now.”

  His gaze went over her a second time, stopping on her ring finger—absent the symbol of marriage. “What a surprise. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Most people say something along the lines of, ‘It’s good to see you.’ But I’ll settle for a belated, ‘Thanks for all of those papers you helped with.’”

  His eyes still traveled over her in shock. “Isabelle—Belle. I don’t believe it.” And then, as though he realized he should do something more, he reached out and hugged her.

  Back in college, his scent reminded her of the outdoors—of sunshine and grassy fields. The cologne he wore now had a deeper, richer scent that brought to mind fast cars and power meetings.

  He held her for a few seconds longer than was casual. She didn’t pull away. She enjoyed the feel of his arms around her, the feel of the hard muscles in his chest.

  When he let her go, he stood closer than before. “What are you doing here? Are you staying at the resort?”

  “I’ll be here all week. You?”

  “I’m here for a bit.” He rubbed the back of his neck absently. “Are you here with friends? A boyfriend?”

  “All by myself.” She shrugged as though it weren’t strange to go to Cancun alone. “I’m a fashion designer. Sometimes I go on trips to get inspiration. You never know what will turn up.”

  “A fashion designer,” he said as though impressed. “Where at?”

  “Fontaine. It’s one of the smaller houses. I won’t hold it against you if you’ve never heard of it.”

  “Sorry, I don’t keep up with the fashion world.”

  She allowed her eyes to wander over him in what she hoped was a contemplative, and not overly suggestive, way. He had a body that made anything look good, and it would have been plenty easy to get distracted by it, but she was studying his clothes. Despite his claim to not follow fashion, both his shirt and pants were well-made, high-end articles. Tailored, probably.

  “I’ll give your clothes an A-plus anyway.”

  He chuckled. “Thanks. I try. Some days more than others.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Do you have your own brand? Couture by Belle…” He glanced upward, thinking. “Your last name escapes me.”

  “Lind,” she said. “And no, no brand yet.”

  He nodded and his gaze circled the lobby. “I was about to get something to eat. Would you like to go to dinner?”

  An actual invitation to a date. Ten years overdue, but she’d happily take it. “That would be nice. I hear the resort has some good restaurants.”

  “I know a place in town that has great food. Ricco’s. Let me take care of my luggage and we can eat there.”

  “You’ve been to Cancun before?”

  “A few times.”

  Ah yes, his family had money. She kept forgetting about that. She’d imagined him as an overworked, underpaid resident, but he didn’t have to rely on a resident’s salary.

  He took hold of his suitcase handle. “I’ll be back down in five minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said. She’d waited for nearly ten years. What were a few more minutes?

  Chapter 5

  As Flynn made his way to the elevator, he took out his phone and checked on the status of Marco’s flight. He wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. Good. He’d be safely checked in and in his hotel room by the time Flynn returned to the resort with Belle.

  This wasn’t the first time he had pretended to be his brother, but it was the first time so much rode on the switch—namely, his brother’s marriage. Flynn didn’t know much about Daisy’s old roommate, but he could already tell she had Marco in her sights.

  In Marco’s post-divorce, wounded-ego state, he would last about five minutes before succumbing to Belle’s glittering blue eyes and inviting lips. He’d happily agree to a revenge fling with Daisy’s ex-best-friend and might even enjoy flaunting the affair in her face, which would be easy to do since Daisy was checking in tomorrow evening.

  And Belle was going to be here all week.

  Flynn would have to keep her away from Marco until after Daisy made amends. Otherwise, any chance for patching up their marriage would be ruined. Daisy would be a hysterical mess, and his parents would wonder why their daughter-in-law was crying all through the reunion.

  Stress and drama. The last things everyone needed.

  Once in the elevator, Flynn put in a call to Katrina, his personal assistant. His office routinely did background checks on people while researching businesses, so they’d subscribed to a database with that information. Running a check would only take a couple of minutes.

  Even though it was a weekend, he knew Katrina would answer. She always did.

  After two rings, she picked up. “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?” She was only ten years his senior, but she liked to mother him.

  “Yes, but I need you to run a background on someone. Her name is Isabelle Lind. L-I-N- D.” He paused to let Katrina log on to her computer. “She’s about twenty-seven, graduated from Washington State University, lives in New York, and works at Fontaine, a fashion design house. What can you tell me about her?”

  Clicking sounds from Katrina’s computer filled his phone. “You must be having an interesting vacation. Are you thinking of marrying this woman or crushing her in a business deal?”

  “Neither.” Maybe he was overreacting about Belle. She could be a nice girl doing some harm
less flirting with an old acquaintance. “I need the information ASAP.”

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll call you back.”

  “Thanks.” Flynn hung up, got off the elevator, and pulled his suitcase down the hallway. He’d booked room seven-fifty, the luxury suite. He found it, opened the door, and stepped into a spacious sitting room with an adjoining kitchen. The balcony overlooked the beach and the procession of gentle waves making their way onto the sand. Farther inside, he caught sight of a Jacuzzi in the bathroom. It would be a nice place to relax, if he ever actually got to relax this week.

  A gift basket with fruit, chocolate, and water bottles sat on the coffee table. He opened one of the bottles and took a drink. His phone rang. Katrina, calling back.

  “What did you find out?” he asked.

  “Ms. Lind is single,” Katrina reported. “No criminal record, outstanding debts, or bankruptcies. She’s worked for Fontaine for five years. She lives in Queens now but grew up in a low-rent district of Yakima—Green Meadow Trailer Park. Not much good news about her family. Her father did six months in jail for identity theft, and her mother was fined three times for drunken and disorderly conduct. Her mom has no job. Looks like someone who’s been on welfare for a long time.”

  “Not the best past.” Flynn wasn’t sure whether to be impressed that Belle had escaped that life, or to be worried that she might have taken some of her parents’ values with her. What sort of person had showed up from Marco’s past?

  “Considering her salary and rent payments,” Katrina went on, “her credit score is good. Maybe too good.”

  Uh-oh. When someone had more money than they should, they usually weren’t coming by the cash in a reputable way. He took a drink, turning that bit of information over in his mind. Was Belle getting extra money from somewhere? And if so, where? With no criminal record, she probably wasn’t doing anything directly illegal, but maybe she had a penchant for rich boyfriends who paid her bills. If that was the case, it was another reason to keep Belle away from his brother.

  “Oh,” Katrina said, with a note of surprise.

  “What?” Flynn asked.

  “I was just flipping through pictures of her from Fashion Week.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll send you this one. You’ll find it… interesting.”

  Before he could decide what to make of that pronouncement, his phone chimed with the attachment. He opened the photo and then nearly choked on a mouthful of water. He coughed a few times and took another look. What was Belle wearing? Or in this case, almost wearing? Because except for some well-placed sequins, she was just a clam shell shy of Venus rising from the sea.

  “You all right?” Katrina asked, probably because he was still coughing.

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Forget the idea of Marco lasting five minutes before giving in to Belle’s charms. He wouldn’t have lasted one.

  Katrina snorted. “I bet I know where she gets her extra money. She walks by men in that dress, and they feel obliged to slip dollar bills into it. Really, I don’t know what fashion houses are thinking when they make gowns like that. I mean seriously, where would the average woman wear it? To the office Christmas party? To church?” Katrina made disapproving tsking noises. “I’ll send the rest of the report.” More clicking came from her computer. “So, you never told me why you needed the background check on her. Some sort of business venture?”

  “I’m taking her on a date.”

  “Oh,” Katrina said, drawing out the word uncomfortably. “In that case, I didn’t mean to imply that she’s a stripper. Forget I said all of that.”

  “It’s not that sort of date.”

  “I’m sure she’s a lovely girl.”

  “I’m just seeing her while I’m in Cancun.”

  “And I’m sure she makes her extra income by baking cookies or helping out in preschools. Something perfectly respectable.”

  Rich boyfriends. Belle probably had a line of them willing to buy whatever she wanted to keep her happy. Well, Flynn wouldn’t judge her for it, but he also wouldn’t let her near his brother.

  Chapter 6

  As Belle climbed into Dawson’s rental car, she remembered how tongue-tied she’d been around him back in college. Well, not just tongue-tied. Brain-tied. Everything-tied. But not anymore. She was finally equal to a relationship with him. She gave him her best flirty smile. “I can hardly wait to get caught up.”

  “Me too.” Dawson drove across the parking lot and down the tree lined street that led to the main road. “I want to hear everything about your life. What have you been up to since college?”

  She made herself stop staring at him and looked at the passing trees. Everything was so green here, as though winter wasn’t hunkering down in the US. “I live in New York, work way too much, and hope that one day I’ll find a magical way to design clothes that make women look ten pounds thinner. I’d be rich overnight. What about you?”

  He shook his head. “I said I wanted to hear everything about your life. You gave me two sentences. What do you do as a fashion designer? What does your job entail?”

  On the ride to the restaurant, she gave him a brief explanation about using computer-aided design, choosing fabrics, making mockups, and working with sales and marketing teams. “Fontaine specializes in career-wear, but we dabble in haute couture. Our motto is, ‘If wealthy people want to buy it, we’ll make it.’”

  “Good motto.” Dawson pulled up next to a Spanish-style building with a fountain out front, and he turned the car over to a valet. As they walked inside, Belle was surrounded by the smell of spicy food, of things that were fried, delicious, and full of calories. She’d barely eaten all day and was starved. In one side of the room, a band played, and several couples were on the dance floor, swaying to Latin music.

  The hostess showed them to a table on the terrace overlooking the ocean. Soft blue waves lapped the shore as the sun sank behind the horizon, painting the sky pink.

  After they sat down, Dawson flipped his menu open. “So, do you like your job?”

  She thought of fashion week and the after party. He’d picked the wrong time to ask. “It has its ups and downs.”

  “Hmm. You hesitated before answering. Does that mean right now it’s more down than up?”

  When had he become so observant? Back in college, he’d hardly noticed what she said, let alone read any meaning into it. She shrugged. “My boss keeps promising to promote me to senior designer after the next show, and then the next, and the next. I’m getting tired of waiting.”

  “If he’s stringing you along, you may have to remind him that other houses can utilize your talent.”

  His confidence was flattering, and he had a point. She glanced over her menu. Lobster. Steak. Swordfish. Everything was expensive. “I don’t think he means to string me along.” She let out a sigh. How could she explain what the last few months had been like? “My boss has been acting strange lately. Making a lot of bad business decisions.”

  “Like what?” Dawson asked, clearly intrigued.

  She could have come up with a dozen examples. “We usually buy high-quality fabrics. Our customers expect that. But this season Felix purchased the cheapest fabrics he could find, and then wanted us to design around them—as if we could make polyester drape like chiffon with the right tweaks. He’s saved some money on the back end, but he’ll end up hurting our brand.”

  “Is the company going under?”

  “No. That’s the odd thing. Fontaine struggled for its first few years, but it’s been in the black since I was hired.” Belle’s gaze drifted over her menu again. The descriptions sounded more like artwork than food. “Of course, judging by the way Felix is acting lately, you wouldn’t think Fontaine was successful. He’s become an absolute supply Nazi. Seriously, you’ve never seen a man milk along a printer the way he’s doing.”

  “Why do you think he’s acting that way?”

  “He says thrift is a virtue. Although he’s not being smart about money. He sol
d off the company vehicles and is leasing new ones. That’s more expensive in the long run.”

  Dawson pressed his lips together like a doctor about to deliver bad news to a patient. “Ten to one he’s selling the company. He’s running it lean to make it appear more attractive to potential buyers.”

  Belle’s mouth dropped open in shock. Could Dawson be right? “Felix wouldn’t sell Fontaine. It’s his life.” He couldn’t even give up the title of creative director. He would never let someone else run his company, let alone own it.

  “He hasn’t given you that promotion because the increased salary would count against his bottom line. So he’ll keep putting you off, and then you’ll get to explain his promises to the new owner and hope they listen.”

  Belle considered the idea, but rejected it again. “There has to be some other explanation.” After all, Dawson couldn’t know Felix’s intentions from the few details she’d tossed out in conversation. “He would have told us if he planned to sell.”

  Dawson sent her a look indicating he thought she was either highly optimistic or naïve. “Not many CEOs tip their hands to their employees. I’d brush up your resume, just in case.”

  Before she could reply, the waiter came to take their orders. Belle had been too caught up talking about work to choose an entree. Stupid, really. She was sitting across the table from a man who was gorgeous, charismatic, and—most importantly—single. And she was letting herself fret about work.

  Dawson spoke to the waiter in Spanish to order his meal. When did he learn Spanish? Had he taken it in college? She didn’t remember.

  Belle decided on pecan-encrusted sole. Anything that was encrusted in pecans had to be good. She ordered in English, and the waiter seemed to understand.

  After he left, Dawson asked, “How has your family been?”