The Matchmaker's Plan. Karen Toller Whittenburg
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.”
“We’re thrilled you could come,” he said, offering her not a handshake or a kiss on the hand, but his best the-Danville-Foundation-appreciates-your-contribution smile with a slight inclination of the head. Ainsley called the gesture his bow to the demigods who poured dollars into the work of the Foundation and expected royal treatment—at least—in return. The O’Reillys qualified on both counts. “Celebrations would be meaningless without friends like you to share in our happiness.”
Which was neither true nor his personal opinion, but was what he said because he represented the Danville Foundation and because that’s what people like the O’Reillys wanted to hear. He’d learned early that being a liar and a gentleman was his birthright, bought and paid for with stolen gold by his ancestor, Black Dan, the pirate. So Matt lied, and he did it well, because no one ever considered that his story might not be the truth.
“That’s so sweet of you to say,” Connie replied. “We’ve been simply overwhelmed at the warm welcome we’ve received here in Newport. Especially after hearing about that famous New England aloofness all these years.”
“Aloofness-spoofness.” Rick grinned broadly. “Y’all just promote that notion to keep out the riffraff. I’ve got your Yankee number.”
“I believe you do.” Matt felt a distinct liking for the older man and his what-you-see-is-what-you-get manners. It took a tough character to build a fortune with his bare hands, and Rick O’Reilly had earned the pride he wore as if it were the Congressional Medal of Honor. Matt envied him that privilege.
“I thought I saw Scarlett talking to you,” Peyton said, her voice perfectly cordial, the grip she still had on Matt’s hand distinctly impatient. “Did she leave?”
Mother and daughter exchanged a look long on subtext and riddled with tension, but painfully civil. “Yes, she did. Covington wanted to take her for a moonlight drive.”
Peyton closed her eyes for a moment, took a slow breath. “And you gave her permission?”
“Well, of course,” Connie answered, her Southern smile skimming Peyton to settle on Matt. “Young people these days are always off on their own adventures, you know. And such a nice group of young men and women have included our Scarlett in their number. Richard and I were just talking about how easily she fits in here. But that’s Scarlett for you, never meets a stranger.”
“Did she leave in a group?” Peyton persisted. “Or just with him?”
Connie was clearly uncomfortable having this discussion in front of Matt. As, perhaps, Peyton had intended. “I trust Covington completely, Peyton. He’s a lovely boy, as I’m sure Matthew would be happy to tell you.”
Matt did not want to get in the middle of this. Not even a little.
As if sensing retreat, Peyton pressed her fingers hard into his, asking him to stay, even as she continued the visual wrestling match with her mother.
Connie didn’t yield. “You know, Matthew, I would dearly love to meet Nick Shepard. If I promise not to be so gauche as to ask for his autograph, would you, perhaps, introduce me? I understand your sister, Miranda, is engaged to his brother. Won’t that be nice, having a genuine celebrity