And see if he truly affected me the way I thought he did.
I shoved open the door to Valentine, Inc., and stopped dead in my tracks.
“You’re late,” Dovie said, eyeing the antique mahogany longcase clock standing regally in the corner of the room.
“What are you doing here?”
I couldn’t believe Dovie was even functioning this morning, as someone who’d probably drunk her fair share of three bottles of wine.
“Suzannah called me. She took the day off to keep searching for the little boy.”
“And she didn’t call me?”
“She tried. Your home line was busy, and your cell is off.”
Busy? I hadn’t been on the phone that morning. Then it hit me—Grendel. One of his favorite games was knocking my phone off the hook. I checked my cell. Sure enough, it was off. In addition to Suzannah’s call, I’d also missed one from my mother. She’d left a quick message about changing hotels but didn’t mention why.
“Suz called me after that.” Dovie shuffled a pile of papers. “I’m glad she did. This is an opportunity I’m not going to waste.”
There was no doubt in my mind that Dovie would rat me out to my father for being late. She wanted my job, after all. For a second I pondered why she hadn’t woken me up to come with her into the city. But I knew the answer—I would have put up a fuss about her taking over Suz’s job. This way, Dovie got her way.
Grinning at me, she picked a piece of lint off navy blue pleated trousers that had been tailored to fit her thin frame. A crisp striped oxford, sleeves cuffed, had been left untucked, the top four buttons undone, revealing a white lace camisole beneath. Her usual assortment of bangles slid up and down her arm. Two chopsticks held her hair back in a twist. Green eyes shone with excitement, and the last thing I wanted to do was burst her bubble.
“Did you run your temp job by Dad?”
She cringed at the words “temp job,” but my concerns were swatted away with a wave of her hand. “Hooey. I gave birth to your father. I hold majority in this family.”
I smiled. I loved when Dovie made a stand. Even though once my father found out about her involvement in the office he might have himself another heart attack. Dovie tended to . . . complicate things.
“And you need the help. Admit it. Without Suz here, you’re lost.”
I had a feeling I’d be more lost with Dovie running things.
I didn’t mention so. Some things were better left unsaid. Especially when the person hurt by those words was your landlady.
“You don’t have to look so worried,” she said. “I’m just going to sit here behind the desk, answer the phone, talk to clients, look divine—don’t you love the shirt?—and mind my own business.”
I was in serious trouble when my father found out about this.
“The shirt is nice. Chanel?”
“Dior.”
My budget for designer clothes was practically nonexistent, though I always bought classic pieces. They were pricey but didn’t need to be replaced every year. Today I’d thrown on a pair of cream dress pants, a brown cashmere sweater, and brown kitten-heeled boots I’d found on sale at Macy’s. Not bad, but certainly not on the level of Chanel or Dior. But that was the choice I’d made when I’d given up my trust fund.
I closed the door and noticed Dovie had already started the fire in the fireplace. Flames licked the ceramic logs. The pillows on the couches had been fluffed, awaiting the first clients of the day.
A flash of panic swept over me. Could I really do this? Look how my first day had gone, after all. Sure, a few of my meetings had been cut-and-dried. But then there had been Michael Lafferty and the skeleton I’d seen.
Sooner or later, I was going to have to deal with that body, and I could imagine how that would affect business and the family reputation. I needed the police to “find” the body without them knowing I was involved. And I had to come up with a plan to protect the company and myself.
I was lost in the notion of Valentine, Inc., failing under my watch when my grandmother’s sharp voice snapped me out of my miserable reverie.
“LucyD, I’ll have you know I was running this office years before you were born. Years before your father was born. So stop looking like that.”
Actually, I hadn’t been thinking of her at all, but she also didn’t need to know about the skeleton in the woods. “Sorry. Just scattered in my rush to get here.”
“I could have covered your first appointment.”
“What happened to just answering phones?”
She smiled, much like the Cheshire cat. “I’m being hypothetical.”
“Right.”
The buzzer sounded on the door, and Dovie bounded to the intercom on Suz’s desk.
“It’s Mary Keegan.” The sounds of the morning’s traffic were a noisy accompaniment to the small voice.
“Come right up.” Dovie released the button.
“My first appointment,” I said, trying to tamp down a feeling of dread.
“Not quite.” Dovie adjusted her bangles. “Lola Fellows is in your office. And she doesn’t seem happy.” Leaning in, Dovie whispered, “That woman scares me.”
Lola? What was she doing back so soon?
“Go, go,” Dovie urged. “I’ll handle things out here.”
That’s one of the many things I was afraid of.
Taking a deep breath, I strode into my office. Lola stood, looking out the window into the narrow alley behind the building. She turned when I came in, arms folded against her chest, her eyes steeled for war.
“Good morning,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
I set my tote bag on my desk and pulled out the files I’d brought home the night before. “Would you like to sit down?”
Lola glared. “No, I do not want to sit down. What I want is my money back. You’re fired, Ms. Valentine.”
EIGHT
I sank into my chair. My worst fear was coming true—I was ruining the family business. I’d been in charge of the company for one day and it was already headed down the tubes.
That had to be some kind of record.
“Can I ask why?” I asked.
Lola tapped her foot furiously. “Adam Atkinson is why.”
I recognized the name immediately. He was the man I’d found with an identical shimmery blue swatch as Lola’s. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute?”
Her red lips thinned. After a brief hesitation, she sat. Legs and arms crossed, she said, “I knew I should have waited for your father to handle my case. Now I want nothing to do with Valentine, Inc. What a laugh.”
Worried about losing one of my father’s clients, I asked, “Something wrong with Adam? All our clients are put through an extensive background check—”
“Yes, there’s something wrong with him! He’s, he’s a . . .” Her jaw locked. “He’s a sanitation engineer,” she squeezed out between clenched veneered teeth.
“A sanitation engineer?” I blinked. “You mean a trashman?”
She growled. “Yes, a trashman. How on earth could you think I would match with a trashman?”
Letting out a deep breath, I leaned back in my chair, trying to tamp down my rising anger. “I take it you spoke with him?”
“He’s a trashman, Ms. Valentine. As soon as I learned of his profession the conversation was over. Our worlds would never blend.” She jabbed a manicured finger in the air, its red tip flashing. “Something you as a matchmaker should have realized before you embarrassed me in such a way. Can you imagine him at the symphony? At a corporate dinner? Dressed in Armani?” She shuddered.
I bit my tongue.
She stood, shivering in self-righteousness. “I want an apology, I want my money back, and I will have a word with your father when he returns.”
Forcing myself to unclench my hands, relax my shoulders, and sit up straight, I wondered how best to handle this. As Lola strode to the door, I casually threw out, “Do you know why my father, one of the wealthiest men i
n the country, one of the most dashing, debonair, sophisticated men you’ll ever meet, has a trashman as a client?”
Slowly, she turned around. “I’m sure I don’t care.”
I rose from my chair and was surprised my legs didn’t wobble. “Adam, like you, is a client because love, true love, knows no boundaries. Not money, societal class, race, or religion.”
Where was this stuff coming from? Had some of my father’s many lectures actually sunk in?
“The value of a person is found in their heart,” I said, sounding like a sappy Hallmark card. “Not in their bank account or occupation. Love doesn’t care if Adam is a trashman or if he’s a brain surgeon.”
Face flaming, she said, “Well, I care.”
“Exactly.”
“What is that supposed to mean, Ms. Valentine?”
“It means you’re a snob, Ms. Fellows.”
She bristled and took a step forward. “I am not a snob for wanting to date an equal.”
“Really? And how’s that been working for you so far?”
Her face lost all color. “You bitch.”
Pointedly I said, “I was thinking along the same lines.” And I hadn’t needed an aura to help me reach that conclusion.
Crimson lips parted and her jaw dropped. “How dare you?”
“Look, you’re thirty-two years old and have never had a meaningful relationship. You tried things your way, and they didn’t work. You came here to try things our way, which you refuse to do. To my way of thinking, you have two options. One is that you walk out of here miserable and lonely.”
Though I had zero confidence in my own matchmaking abilities, I fully trusted my father’s gift. If Adam had a shimmery blue aura, then he was the man for Lola. Poor, poor unsuspecting guy.
“Option two is to trust us. We know what we’re doing. Adam Atkinson is the perfect man for you. You need to stop thinking with your brain and start feeling with your heart. Give the man a chance. Give yourself a chance,” I added softly, wondering whether this melodramatic side of me had always been there or it was something new.
I didn’t know, but it felt like a lot of BS. Of course I’d seen that true love existed. You couldn’t look at my father’s track record and not be convinced. However, no one close to me had ever been in a happy relationship.
It only made sense that I was a little skeptical, but as I heard myself talking to Lola, I almost bought in to the hype and thought maybe one day I could find true love, too.
Then I remembered Cupid’s Curse.
There was little hope for me.
Lola’s brow furrowed; I felt her weakening and added honey to the pot. “Last year, our success rate was ninety-eight percent.”
“And what, per se, happened to the two percent?”
Leave it to her to focus on the negative. “They were people, like you, who couldn’t trust us, who needed to control everything around them at the cost of finding true happiness.” I didn’t mention the client who had gotten hit by a car and the one who’d failed the background check miserably. “It’s up to you now. Do you want to fall in love? It’s as simple as that.”
Her face crumpled. “Why couldn’t he be anything but a trashman? Do you think he smells?”
This time I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “There’s only one way to tell.”
Perfectly plucked eyebrows arched. “I’m not apologizing to you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Her delicate chin lifted; her shoulders stiffened. “I’ll call him.”
“Be nice to him.”
“I’m always nice.” She burst out laughing, short staccato sounds that hurt my ears.
Poor Adam.
“Okay, maybe not,” she conceded. “But if he’s my perfect match, then he won’t mind, will he?”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. Was it possible he was just as bad as Lola? “I suppose not.”
“Good day, Ms. Valentine.” She power-walked from my office, and I’d barely had time to take a deep breath before Dovie buzzed me on the intercom. “Mary Keegan is on her way in. Oh, and there’s a Sean Donahue to see you, as well. What a cutie-pie he is. A former firefighter, and you know what they say about firefighters. They’re too hot—”
I stabbed the intercom button, perfectly aware that anyone in the reception area could hear her. Especially Sean. “Thank you, Dovie,” I said sharply.
Sean. My heart leapt into my throat at the thought of seeing him again.
I cursed myself for it. It was nothing short of idiocy.
Before I had time to collect myself, Mary Keegan was standing in the doorway, her beautiful brown eyes wide and blinking. She was middle-aged, soft and doughy. Her translucent skin glowed with good health and happiness.
I walked over to the door to greet her. Reluctantly, I held out my hand. The dreaded handshake. I silently pleaded that she hadn’t lost anything lately. “Lucy Valentine,” I said, hoping my internal cringing didn’t show on my face.
Pumping my hand, she beamed at me.
Nothing. No images. Whew.
“Have a seat,” I said.
“No, no.”
Confused, I tipped my head in silent question.
“I came,” she said, “because I was worried.”
“About?” Was another client about to jump ship?
“How well my relationship was going with Barry. He’s the new man in my life—your father set us up. But after hearing you speak to that other woman, I realized that I need to let go of my fear, and let my heart lead the way.”
“The other woman?”
“The one who just left. Red lips, big attitude, intimidating.”
That about summed up Lola Fellows. “How did you hear our conversation?” We hadn’t raised our voices . . . much.
Her cheeks colored. “It did feel a bit like eavesdropping, but the lovely woman at the front desk seemed like it was perfectly normal to be listening through the intercom.”
“I see.” Dovie was dead meat.
“You gave that woman great advice—advice I’ll be taking as well. I just wanted to come back here and tell you so. I won’t take up any more of your time. Please let your father know an invitation to my wedding will be in the mail soon.”
She shook my hand again (again, nothing) and left.
I listened carefully, while slowly counting in my head, until the front door closed. “Dovie!” I bellowed.
A second later Sean appeared in my doorway, a lazy smile on his face. “She hightailed it out of here as soon as Ms. Keegan enlightened you about the eavesdropping.”
My heart pounded wildly at the sight of him. So much for imagining my reaction. “I’m going to kill her.”
“It would mean life without the possibility of parole.”
He brushed past me, his arm touching mine as he went by. Heat shot from my skin into my bloodstream. The whisper of his breath warmed my neck.
I was doomed. Plain and simple. Doomed.
“It would be worth it,” I said, trying to compose myself. I could not let this go on.
He looked around, found a second intercom hiding under my desk. He disconnected it. “You might want to look around before having any more private conversations.”
“Think I’d look good in prison orange?”
His gaze slid down my body and up again. “I imagine you’d look good in anything, Ms. Valentine.”
Was it possible to self-combust from one look?
I decided it was.
“Call me Lucy, please.”
“Only if you call me Mr. Donahue.”
I did a double take. Again, that lazy smile tugged at his lips. Lips that on any other man would be boring, plain old lips. On him, they promised wicked, wicked, delicious things.
When I didn’t say anything, he said, “I’m kidding.”
“I know.” I laughed. “I’m just—” I made a tornado motion above my head with my hand. “A little out of it. It’s already been a long day and it’s not even ten. I
was going to come upstairs and see you as soon as I had a break.”
“Before or after you called your client a bitch?”
My cheeks heated. “I didn’t call her one. I implied it.”
“Semantics, Lucy.”
My stomach somersaulted at the sound of my name from his sexy lips. Get a grip, I told myself. It’s not as though I hadn’t heard my name spoken before. A million times.
“Lucy?”
Oh, not again! There was just something about the way he said it. Something . . . promising.
“You okay?” he asked. “Maybe you should sit down.”
“I’m good.” I pulled my shoulders back, lifted my chin.
“So I see.”
Oh. My.
Inhaling deeply, I said, “I’m sorry if Dovie, you know, offended you.”
“How? By saying I was cute? Or that I was too hot . . . to something.” He smirked, looking like he knew exactly how hot he was. “Very offensive.”
Thinking I was just digging a deeper hole for myself, I scooted around my desk and sat in my chair. I shuffled files, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t lead to any more innuendos. My heart couldn’t take them.
“Am I interrupting your schedule?” he asked, smoky gray eyes turning serious.
I checked the printout of today’s appointments Dovie had left on my desk. “No, actually.”
“Good.” He sank down into the chair across from my desk and rubbed his finger over the raised swirls of the textured fabric. “Can I ask you something?”
If he wanted to go to bed with me, the answer was yes. Which was awful, because I suspected he had a girlfriend. Here I was supposed to be a matchmaker, yet I’d jump at the chance to become a home wrecker.
I obviously had issues.
My voice wavered. “Sure.”
“What’s the deal with Jennifer Thompson?”
Michael Lafferty’s file lay next to my tote bag. “It’s complicated.”
He eyed me. “I like complicated.”
“Yes, well.” Possible girlfriend, I silently chanted, over and over and over again. “The thing is, I’m not sure I can trust you. I barely know you.”