Karen Whittenburg - The Matchmaker's Plan

“Knowing Ainsley, I imagine she thinks she already told you.”

Which was almost certainly true—Ainsley went through life like a sunbeam, making the world a brighter place wherever she happened to alight, blissfully unaware of practical matters—but somehow it annoyed him that Peyton knew his sister so well. “Perhaps she does,” he answered, his voice sounding as stilted as hers.

For a moment—the space of five, maybe six heartbeats—Peyton drifted in his arms like a summer cloud, her steps perfectly matched to his, her body effortlessly responding to the slightest nuance of his lead. Matt marveled again at the graceful ease with which they danced together, wondered how the action could be so uncomplicated and their conversation so problematic.

“I met your mother and father.” The sentence came out sounding a little desperate, as if she’d searched long and hard to think of something unexceptionable to say. “They’re remarkable people.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “They are.”

“You must be so proud to be their son.”

“Yes, I am.” And that was about as far as that conversational line could go. He couldn’t very well return the compliment, as he’d met her parents and found them unremarkable except for their great fascination with their new money and status. Peyton didn’t seem to share their attitude, but then that was just an impression. Based on little more than observation and, of course, on frequent and somewhat heated exchanges of opinion about allowing her creative ideas—and she had many of them—to run full steam ahead, regardless of who or what got bulldozed along the way. Peyton demonstrated little patience for protocol and procedure, and a decided disdain for tradition. She believed fiercely—he knew this from painful experience—that raising the funding for a project was more important than coddling personalities, and she’d proved willing to butt heads with anyone who tried to derail her parade. That anyone being, lately and most often, him.

“Miranda did a great job of putting this event together,” she ventured in her next conversational gambit. “What a great idea to have it here at the pediatric center so some of Dr. Donovan’s patients could enjoy the celebration.”

“Yes,” he agreed, then deciding he could expend a little more effort, added, “Having the reception here was actually Ainsley’s inspiration. Luckily, Miranda didn’t murder her for changing her mind at the very last minute.”

The fact that he’d volunteered more than one syllable seemed to startle Peyton and she made no response. Matt felt frustrated with her and with the nagging pleasure he experienced being close to her and holding her in his arms. Since taking the reins of the Black-and-White Ball fund-raising committee, she’d caused him nothing but headaches. In his office, she found it easy to tackle his opinion that sometimes the long way around a problem was the right way. In committee meetings, she had no problem at all finding the words to challenge his position. But put the two of them together in a social setting and—wham!—nothing but uninspired sentences and stuttering attempts at conversation.

Where was the passion she waved like a red flag the very second he tried to advise or caution her? But even as the question crossed his mind, he knew. It was here, radiating between their bodies, conducting a conversation all its own, an uninvited guest who seemed intent on making a scene.

And, Matt realized suddenly, she was as aware of the underlying attraction and its accompanying tension as he was…and just as determined not to acknowledge it.

“I met Miranda’s fiancé earlier,” Peyton said in yet another attempt to pretend she was unaware of any undertones. “His older set of twins attend the same private school as my sister, Scarlett. She’s a little older than they are, I think.”

Matt couldn’t help himself. As he realized she was fighting an unwelcome attraction to him, he began to see everything about her in a new light. The spark Ainsley had recognized, and hoped to fan into a romantic blaze, was mutual and it explained a lot. Not the least being his instant and rather keen fascination with the sensual curve of her lips and the abrupt and rather defensive tilt of her chin.

He tried a smile, and immediately the sparkle leaped back into her eyes and the sizzle streaked through him, as startling as a lightning strike. Interesting. “Do you have any brothers? More than one sister?” he asked, as much to put a little distance between himself and those thoughts as to keep up his end of the conversation.

“No, just Scarlett. Some days she makes me wish I had at least one more sibling to help keep her corralled.”

“Is ‘keeping her corralled’ your responsibility?”

Her gaze flashed up to his, flitted away. “My parents haven’t always been…accessible. They worked many long hours at the restaurant before it turned into a franchise. The restaurant chain is one of those so-called overnight success stories that took years of hard work to make happen. Taking care of Scarlett sort of naturally fell to me.”

“We have that in common then.”

“What?”

“I took care of my younger siblings, too.”

“You did?”

He didn’t think she needed to sound quite so astonished. “I did.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm? What does that mean?”

She moistened her lips, and it occurred to him she was, perhaps, a little intimidated. Which should have made him feel he had the advantage, but didn’t. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she answered, “except, maybe, that you don’t seem like the nurturing type.”

“What type do I seem like?”

Her smile flashed unexpectedly and the sizzle zapped him again. “The type who likes to…”

But whatever she planned to say faded as something across the room caught and held her attention. She couldn’t have glanced away for more than a second or two, but her tension was instantaneous and rippled from her body into his, and when her gaze returned to him, there was anger in her eyes.

“Matt,” she said, “I need your help. Please don’t ask any questions, just play along with whatever I say. Please. I wouldn’t ask you, except…”

Except he was the only hero handy. Intrigued, he nodded. “You want to see if I’m the type of guy who will help a lady in distress.”

She didn’t offer even a frown in reply, just grabbed his hand and led him around and past the other couples on the dance floor, pausing briefly when they reached the edge. “This is probably going to sound insane to you, but it’s the only way to deal with my mother. Please believe me.”

If he’d been tempted to discount the seriousness of her request, her grip on his hand would have weighted it in her favor. He’d be lucky if he could wiggle his fingers tomorrow. Something had tipped her temper into the red, and the hesitant conversationalist of a few minutes ago had vanished, replaced by this woman with an agenda.

“Mother. Daddy.” She greeted her parents in a tone delicate with respect, yet steely with impatience. “You know Matthew Danville, of course.”

Rick O’Reilly, medium height, medium weight, over-the-top personality, was quick with a handshake, quicker with a smile. “Matt, good to see you, son. Great party. Good eats. Some pretty important guests, too.” He waggled a pair of caterpillar eyebrows. “The wife’s been trying to get up close and personal with that television-star fella. You know, the soap opera guy. Between us men, I don’t see what he’s got that we don’t, but, hey, there’s no understanding women to begin with. Know what I mean?”

“Richard, honestly…” There was nothing medium or mediocre about Connie O’Reilly. If she had ever been her husband’s counterpart, she’d since become splendidly sophisticated. Everything about her was studied and deliberate, stylish and expensive, gracious but somehow calculating. Matt couldn’t decide if she expected him to shake her hand or kiss it. “It was such a lovely wedding, Matthew. Rick and I are thrilled to have been invited.”