How I Met Your Brother (Power of the Matchmaker)

by Janette Rallison

  Instead of disappointment, she had a sudden awareness of how close she and Flynn stood. He’d said he would kiss her here at the pool. Now her eyes had nowhere safe to rest. Looking at his eyes meant venturing into hazardous territory. Looking at his lips would seem like an invitation. But gazing at his broad shoulders seemed wrong too. It brought to mind their last kiss, when she’d leaned against him and felt his muscles against her body. Everything about him was making her heart beat erratically.

  Flynn took her hand and lazily pulled her to him. His hand slowly made its way up her arm. His other hand found her hair and his fingers twined into it.

  “Plural means two,” she said. Her voice sounded husky. “Three at the most.”

  His fingers kept going through her hair, gently stroking it. Her breathing was coming faster. It shouldn’t. She had already kissed him twice and knew what it would be like. Those kisses had actually mattered to her at the time. She’d thought they meant something. But this kiss was just part of a wager, so it should be easy.

  Flynn’s hand moved from her hair to the nape of her neck. His fingers ran over her throat, feather soft, making her skin tingle.

  She found herself leaning toward him, responding to his touch. That shouldn’t happen. She wanted Marco. He was open and friendly, a what-you-see-is-what-you-get person. Flynn was intense with hidden undercurrents. Flynn looked inside people and analyzed them until he had the upper hand. She had to be careful with him.

  His fingers caressed the slope of her cheek, then lifted her chin. His eyes were on hers, looking inside her, weighing her reaction, cataloging every piece of information somewhere in his mind.

  How had she ever mistaken Flynn for Marco? Their personalities were so clearly different. She should have known something was off before she and Flynn ever reached the restaurant. Instead, she’d attributed the change in Marco to a change in his feelings for her. His intensity, his dry humor—none of it had been interest, it had all just been Flynn.

  His lips came down on hers. She expected a bit of arrogance in this kiss, some sense of gloating over his victory. But his lips moved against hers lightly, tenderly, as though this were a tenuous first kiss.

  She sighed and kissed him back. A bargain was a bargain, after all. She’d agreed to this. Although in retrospect, she probably should have put some parameters on the kiss. On the kisses, plural. Instead of letting go, Flynn’s hands tightened around her waist, pulling her closer.

  She slid her hand against his chest, partially as a barrier, partially because she wanted to feel his muscles beneath her fingertips.

  His lips were no longer light against hers. The kiss was becoming like Monday night’s—deep, dizzying. She needed to end it. Kissing Flynn so passionately wasn’t right, not when it meant nothing to him. Especially since it was beginning to mean something to her.

  Flynn, Flynn, Flynn. His name repeated in her mind. She shouldn’t…She was letting attraction form her feelings rather than the other way around.

  His hand ran along her back, sending a cascade of shivers that reached her toes.

  Flynn, Flynn, Flynn.

  Forget Marco, she wanted Flynn.

  No, that wasn’t right. And she shouldn’t do this. She pushed herself away, breaking their embrace, then took a steadying breath. What now? How could she explain the way she’d just kissed him, when he knew she had feelings for Marco?

  He was smiling at her as though he’d won an argument.

  “So,” she said, as businesslike as she could muster, “you can’t claim I went back on my word that time.”

  “Nope.” He sounded breathless too, which somehow made her feel a little better. Perhaps he wasn’t as unaffected by the kiss as she’d assumed. He leaned toward her again, his gaze on hers. Was he going to kiss her again? Should she let him?

  The answer to the second question was no. She’d agreed to one kiss by the pool, not two. Yet she didn’t move, didn’t turn away. She waited, pulse thrumming, for him to draw her close again.

  His phone rang, a muffled sound from his back pants pocket. He ignored it, taking a step toward her that shrank what little distance she’d put between them. The phone kept ringing.

  “Why do people always call at the wrong time?” he muttered.

  Sanity was returning. “Didn’t you ask Daisy to call to you?”

  His fingers trailed up her arms. “I don’t want to talk to her right now.”

  But the spell was already broken. Knowing that Daisy was waiting on the line brought Belle back to her senses. What she felt for Flynn was attraction, not love. And he—well, if anything he saw her as a challenge, an amusing distraction. She was not about to be either.

  She straightened. “I’m here because I need to apologize to Daisy. You should answer the phone.”

  “Apologies can wait.” Flynn took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Daisy can wait.”

  Belle let herself be pulled to him, even smiled innocently up at him, but as her hands went around his waist, she reached for his back pocket. She grabbed his phone and stepped away before he realized what she’d done.

  Sure enough, Daisy’s name was on the screen. Belle accepted the call and put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Daisy.”

  “Belle,” Flynn protested, but didn’t snatch the phone back. He could have; he was taller and stronger. Instead he let out an aggrieved sigh.

  “Who is this?” Daisy asked.

  “It’s Belle—Isabelle. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for what I said at dinner.” Belle glanced at Flynn, and mouthed, “See? I’m being good.”

  “Where’s Flynn?” Daisy’s voice sounded cold. “And why do you have his phone?”

  “He’s right next to me. I took his phone because I needed to apologize to you.” She held the phone away from her lips, pointed to herself, and mouthed. “Perfectly behaved.”

  “I know why you came to Cancun,” Daisy said, each word dagger sharp. “To throw yourself at Marco. The thing I don’t understand is why you’re going to so much trouble to take him away from me.”

  Daisy had obviously forgotten everything about college.

  “Oh, it’s really not all that much trouble,” Belle said sweetly. This time she didn’t mouth anything to Flynn, which probably should have clued him in that she wasn’t being good anymore.

  Daisy swore in frustration. “How could you do this? Why would you stab me in the back?”

  “Funny, I asked myself that same question when you started dating Marco.”

  Flynn’s eyebrows drew together unhappily, and he held his hand out for the phone.

  “What?” Daisy sputtered in disbelief. “That’s why you’re doing this? For vengeance? That’s the most—”

  Belle didn’t hear Daisy’s proclamation of most-ness, because Flynn tried to take the phone. She turned the other way and stepped out of his range.

  “Stay away from Marco,” Daisy went on, “or I’ll tell everyone what sort of person you really are.”

  What did she mean by that? That she’d out Belle for coming from white trash? Or did she mean some other secret? Daisy had known them all back in college. Belle kept her voice light so Daisy wouldn’t know how deep her words had cut. “I know Mrs. Dawson wanted us to apologize to each other. Just so you know, yours is lacking. Falls more into the threat category, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ve done nothing to apologize for,” Daisy said.

  Belle shrugged. “If you’d rather exchange threats, fine. I can come up with some too.”

  “You backstabbing tramp—”

  Flynn plucked the phone from Belle’s hand before she could say anything else. With the phone held against his chest, he said, “Well, that deteriorated quickly. Glad to see you’re trying to get along for my mother’s sake.”

  The reprimand stung.

  Flynn turned away and put the phone to his ear. “Daisy…”

  Belle hoped to hear him tell Daisy that she’d been out of line too. He’d heard what she said at dinner and m
ust have been able to figure out what kinds of things she’d said on the phone.

  Instead of turning sharp, his voice softened. “I can’t understand you…Daisy, take some deep breaths. You’re going to be fine.”

  Flynn had snapped at Belle, but was comforting Daisy? A second sting went through her, this one for expecting anything different. Flynn had flirted with her, kissed her even. That didn’t mean he had feelings for her. He saw her as a femme fatale, a woman to protect Marco from. He was amusing himself by making her do his bidding, and she’d played right into his hands. And into his arms. She’d kissed him back and had meant it.

  She didn’t wait to hear more. She spun on her heel and stormed back to the resort.

  Chapter 17

  Flynn gripped his phone, feeling more impatient than he should have. He hated it when women cried. He always felt obligated to fix the problem, which was generally impossible. Besides, a person couldn’t talk sense to a crying woman. Daisy had promised that she wouldn’t cause problems at the reunion, but she hadn’t lasted five minutes at dinner, and hadn’t lasted even one minute on the phone with Belle. And he couldn’t yell at her about it because she was already sobbing.

  “Look, Daisy, you’ve got to try harder—”

  She took a stuttering breath. “Everyone is against me.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “Belle wants to take Marco away, and now you’re yelling at me.”

  “I’m not yelling.” He looked over his shoulder for Belle. She was gone. He scanned the pool area, checked the chairs to see if she was sitting down. She wasn’t anywhere. He turned back to the hotel door and caught sight of her heading inside. Belle went through the door without giving him so much as a glance over her shoulder in farewell.

  Well, Daisy had ruined a perfectly good evening. Better than good, actually. Why couldn’t he have put his phone on silent?

  “She’s gorgeous now,” Daisy went on. “You didn’t warn me about that. And you heard the things Belle said at dinner. She was completely coming on to him.”

  “But Marco was oblivious. She said those things to bother you, and you not only took the bait, you impaled yourself on the hook, full force.”

  Flynn rubbed the back of his neck and looked back in the direction Belle had gone. It was ridiculous that he was getting attached to her—kissing her that way. He was tormenting himself with something he couldn’t have.

  “She made me look crazy,” Daisy said between sobs. “Your mom spent an hour asking what was wrong, encouraging me to let bygones be bygones, and in general acting disappointed in me. And I couldn’t even defend myself. Now she thinks I’m petty, not to mention paranoid because I randomly accused Belle of wanting Marco’s room number for the wrong reasons. You’ve got to tell everyone the truth about her.”

  Definitely not.

  “You’re not thinking that through,” Flynn said. “Do you really want me to tell Marco that Belle is interested in him? What do you think would happen next?”

  Daisy didn’t answer. Good. That meant she was finally considering the outcome.

  “Your best bet,” Flynn went on, “is for Marco to think that Belle and I are a couple. That way, she’s off limits to him. And she’ll act off limits right up until either you tell Marco otherwise, or on Saturday morning when my parents leave. That’s the deal I made with her.”

  “And on Saturday?” Daisy asked.

  “I tell Marco the truth. I was hoping by that time you and Marco would be back together, and it would be a moot point.”

  “So I only have until Saturday to convince him he still loves me, and then Belle gets her chance?” Daisy whimpered in disbelief. “That’s only a few days.”

  “According to Belle, it didn’t take you much longer than that the first time.”

  Her whimper turned to a groan. “Tonight he barely talked to me.”

  “My guess is you’ll need to do a whole lot of a groveling and a little less looking crazy.”

  She sniffed again. Instead of evoking sympathy, it just irritated him.

  “I’m giving you the best shot I can,” he said. “Don’t blow this. In fact, I’m hanging up now so you can go talk to him. Don’t forget to grovel.”

  She made a panicked squeaking noise.

  “Do it,” he insisted. “Your future happiness is riding on this.” He hung up and thrust the phone into his pocket. Daisy’s happiness wasn’t what he was worried about. It was his own. Unless she convinced Marco to take her back, Belle would walk away from Flynn on Saturday the same way she’d walked away tonight.

  Without so much as looking back.

  Chapter 18

  The next morning, while Belle waited for Flynn to pick her up for breakfast, she sketched ideas for a new line. All black. Not the little black dress variety. Not cocktail dress black. She drew clothes that looked like she was outfitting some futuristic society for war. A stylish war. She drew take-over-the-world outfits. Take-no-prisoners black. Foul-mood-and-I-want-to-hurt-someone black.

  She didn’t know why she was so upset with Flynn; she just was. She felt used, toyed with. He’d spent so much of yesterday acting like a…well, not exactly a friend. She couldn’t put her finger on what she’d thought their relationship had become. Friendly, but not friends. Romantic, but not in love. Had he meant to confuse her with that kiss, or had it happened because she’d allowed herself be swept away by his charm?

  That kiss. That kiss had turned her upside down and tugged her heart right into his hands.

  She pressed the pencil against the paper, making darker strokes. He’d probably planned to derail her. He knew exactly what he was doing with his blue-eyed gaze and soft caresses. And their wager—she still wasn’t sure how, but she was sure he cheated.

  He’d looked far too confident about winning. He was a player, and he’d shown her just how easily she could be played.

  She finished sketching a black trench coat on a woman’s figure then sat back to examine the drawing. What the outfit needed was a crossbow. She was penciling one into the woman’s grip when a knock came on her door.

  She got up and opened it. Flynn stood outside in worn jeans shorts and an old T-shirt, looking better than he had a right to in something so casual. It was unfair to the fashion industry that handsome men could wear things that looked as if they’d been pulled from the dregs of a yard sale and still be gorgeous. Women could never get away with that sort of casualness without it affecting their appearance.

  Belle forced a smile without much of an attempt to make it sincere. “I’m not hungry. Tell your mom I’ll see everyone at dinner.”

  “What?” He held open the door to keep her from shutting it. “Why are you skipping breakfast?”

  “What does it matter? You don’t want me there anyway.” Instead of fighting for control of the door, she turned and walked back into her room. She plunked onto the couch, picked up her sketchbook, and started a new design, one with a flame thrower.

  She expected Flynn to leave. Instead, he followed her inside and planted himself beside her couch. “I do want you there. If you don’t show, my mother will think you and Daisy are fighting.”

  Belle glared at him, couldn’t help herself. She didn’t like the way Daisy’s name sounded on his lips. Familiar. Concerned. On her side.

  “Remember,” he said patiently, “you aren’t going to fight with her.” He waved a hand over her as though she were a pan of brownies that needed cooling. “Despite the waves of hostility I sense coming off you.”

  Belle held her sketchbook in her lap. “Regardless of our bet last night, I’m not kissing you again.”

  “Oh,” Flynn said, with new understanding. “The hostility is directed at me. Well, that will make breakfast more difficult, won’t it?”

  “I don’t know why you kissed me in the first place. You think I’m a gold-digger.”

  He sighed then and sat beside her. “I was wrong to suggest that. I apologize. I suppose that will teach me not to run credit checks
before dinner and then automatically suspect the worst.”

  Wait, what? He ran a credit check on her? Who did that sort of thing after meeting someone for the first time? Her pencil slumped in her hand. “Why would you suspect anything from my credit? I have a good score.”

  “Yeah. So good that it looks like someone or something is supplementing your income, and it’s not your parents. Their scores are dismal.”

  He’d checked her parents’ scores too? How had he managed that? She blackened a pair of boots. “In lieu of rent, I create designs for my landlady. I’ve also made a few wedding dresses on the side.”

  “Well, that explains it. Again, sorry for implying that you’re a gold-digger.”

  She tapped her pencil on the paper. “You really looked at my parents’ credit scores?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not hard to do.”

  “I don’t even know where my father is. I haven’t seen him since I was nine.”

  Flynn rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a touchy subject.”

  “It’s not touchy, it’s just…” Belle had never actively searched for her father. He’d never been there for her as a child, so there didn’t seem to be a lot of point in contacting him now that she was an adult. He was a chapter in a book she’d finished reading long ago. Still, hearing Flynn casually mention her father’s credit rating did something to her, made him feel more real.

  “What’s his financial situation?” she asked, keeping her voice casual.

  “He spent a few months in prison. That doesn’t help anyone’s credit. He worked construction until a couple years ago. Now he’s on disability. Back problems.”

  Liver problems, more likely. She shut her sketch book, bringing her attention back to Flynn. “The point is, from the time we met, you’ve assumed that I would be a fate worse than death for Marco—as if I’m some horrible villain you have to save him from.”

  “I don’t think you’re horrible,” he said slowly. “I’m completely aware of your beauty, intelligence, and unfounded idolization of my brother. I also know him well enough to predict that he’ll happily have a revenge fling with you. But I don’t think that’s what’s best for him—or for you.”