Loe raamatut: «The Magnate's Marriage Merger»

One

“You found her?” Ensconced in his office at the McNeill Resorts headquarters in New York’s Financial District, Ian McNeill glanced up from the file folder on his desk at the private investigator standing before him.

Ian had been back stateside for less than twenty-four hours when he’d gotten the message that the PI he’d hired two months ago had news for him. Ian’s older brother, Quinn, had asked for his help to locate an anonymous Manhattan matchmaker who’d tried to pair their younger brother, Cameron, with a renowned ballerina. While that sounded harmless enough on the surface, the potential “bride” had had no knowledge she was supposed to meet Cameron, and it had caused a public scandal.

Bad enough in itself.

Except then the next day, the matchmaker responsible had closed up shop. Ian discovered within the week that the woman had been using a fake name and an assistant as a front to do most of her work. But despite a few leads, he hadn’t had any luck finding the woman.

Until now.

“That’s her.” The investigator, Bentley, pointed to the closed file folder on Ian’s desk. The guy was a former college roommate and someone he trusted. Bentley’s specialty was digital forensics, but he took the occasional job outside the office if the case was interesting enough or, as in Ian’s case, if the work was for a friend. With his clean-shaven face, wire-rimmed glasses and a faded pair of camo pants, Bentley looked more like a teenage gamer geek than a successful entrepreneur. “It’s no wonder she used an alias for her matchmaking business. She’s certainly well-known in Manhattan by her real name.”

Ian slid the file closer, tapping a finger on the cover.

“The New York tabloids sold plenty of papers trying to guess her identity last winter after she paired up one of the Brooklyn Nets with that fashion blogger,” Bentley explained. The mystery matchmaker had been responsible for a string of high-profile matches between celebrity clients and wealthy movers and shakers, and her success under an assumed name had the New York social scene all trying to guess who she was.

Curious, Ian leaned back in the cherry-red leather executive chair, manila folder in hand. The late-morning sun slanted in through the huge windows with a view of the river. Taking a deep breath, he flipped open the file to the papers inside.

Only to see an eight-by-ten glossy photo of his ex-lover’s face on the top page.

Lydia Whitney smiled back at him with that Mona Lisa grin he’d fallen hard for a year ago—before she’d disappeared from his life after a huge argument.

Ian’s blood chilled.

He sat up straight and waved the photo at his friend.

“What kind of sick joke is this?” He hadn’t told Bentley about his brief affair with Lydia, but the guy specialized in unearthing digital trails. He must have stumbled across some link between them in his investigation.

“What do you mean?” Bentley frowned. Shifting positions, he leaned forward to peer at the folder as if to double-check what Ian was looking at. He shoved the wire-rimmed glasses up into his shaggy dark hair. “That’s her. Lydia Whitney. She’s the illegitimate daughter of that billionaire art collector and the sexpot nurse he hired before he died. Lydia’s mother sued the family for years for part of the inheritance.”

Tension kinked Ian’s shoulders. A tic started below his right eye.

“I know who she is.” Damn. It. Just looking at the picture of Lydia—the Cupid’s bow mouth, the dimples, the pin-straight dark hair that shone like a silk sheet flowing over one shoulder—brought the past roaring back to life. The best weeks of his entire life had been spent with those jade-green eyes staring back into his. “I’m asking why the hell there’s a photo of her here.”

“Ian.” Bentley straightened. When his glasses shifted on his head, he raked them off and jammed them in the front pocket of his olive-green work shirt. “You asked me to find the matchmaker who used the name of Mallory West. The woman who hid behind an alias when she worked for Mates, Manhattan’s elite dating service. That’s her.”

The news sank into Ian’s brain slowly. Or maybe it was Bentley’s expression that made him take a second look at the file in his lap. His former college roommate was a literal guy, and he wasn’t prone to pulling pranks. And he appeared serious about this.

Gaze falling back on Lydia’s flawless skin, Ian flipped past the photo to see what else the file contained. The first sheet was a timeline of the events of last February when “Mallory West” had paired Cameron McNeill with ballerina Sofia Koslov. There were notes about Mallory’s assistant, Kinley, who’d admitted that Mallory was an alias but refused to identify her boss. Then there were pages of notes about Kinley’s whereabouts, including photos of Kinley meeting with Lydia at various places on the Upper East Side—where Ian knew Lydia lived.

“Lydia Whitney is the mystery matchmaker?” As he said the words aloud, they made a kind of poetic sense.

Lydia had ended the most passionate affair of his life when she’d discovered Ian’s photo and profile were on a dating website while they were seeing each other. He’d understood her anger, but mistakenly assumed she would listen to his very reasonable explanation. He had not posted the profile or created the account. He’d given cursory permission to his grandfather’s personal aide to do so after a heated argument with the old man, but had heard no more about it after that day.

Grandpa Malcolm McNeill was so determined his grandsons should marry that he’d since written the condition into his will. None of his grandsons would inherit their one-third share of the global corporation he’d built until they’d been married for at least twelve months. That stipulation had come last winter, prompting Cameron to find a bride with a matchmaker, leading to the fiasco with Sofia Koslov. But the pressure to wed had started long before that. And it had resulted in Ian’s offhanded agreement to allow his profile to be listed on a dating website.

But Lydia didn’t care about his explanation. She’d been furious and had cut off all contact, accusing him of betrayal. What if she’d gone into the matchmaking business—at the very same agency his grandfather had used—to spite Ian? In the months after that, Ian had indeed received some odd suggestions for dates that he’d ignored. Could Lydia have been behind those, too? Anger rolled hot through his veins. Along with it, another kind of heat flared, as well.

“I was surprised, too,” Bentley observed, moving closer to the window overlooking the river and Battery Park. “I thought Mallory West would be someone with more Park Avenue pedigree. An older, well-accepted socialite with more connections among her clientele.” The investigator rested a shoulder on the window frame near Ian’s bookcase full of travel guides.

It didn’t matter that he could get maps of every country on his phone when he traveled for work. Ian liked seeing the big picture of a foldout map, orienting himself on the plane ride to wherever it was he headed to oversee renovations or development work on resorts all over the globe.

“She used to work as an interior designer,” Ian observed lightly, tossing aside the file before he gave any more away about the relationship he hadn’t shared with anyone. “Do you know if she still does?”

He needed to think through his response to this problem. He had planned to hand over Mallory West’s real identity to Vitaly Koslov—the ballerina’s father—who had every intention of suing the matchmaker for dragging his daughter through unsavory headlines last winter. But now that Lydia was the mystery matchmaker? Ian needed to investigate this more himself.

“Yes. Throughout the year she worked as a matchmaker, she continued to take jobs decorating. Since she walked away from the dating service, she is back to working more hours at the design business, but she still volunteers a lot of her time with the single mothers’ network I mentioned in the notes.”

“Single mothers?” Frowning, Ian opened the file again and riffled through it.

“Moms’ Connection. She gives a lot of money to the diaper and food banks.” Straightening, Bentley backed up a step. “Anyway, mystery solved, and I’ve got an appointment in midtown I can’t miss. Are we good here?”

“Sure. I’ll have my assistant send the payment.” Setting aside the file, Ian shoved to his feet and extended a hand to his friend. “I appreciate the time you put into this.”

Bentley bumped his fist. “Not a problem. I’d forgo the payment if you could get me a meeting with your brother Cameron.”

“Cam?” Ian frowned, thinking his friend must have confused his brothers. “Quinn’s the hedge fund manager. Were you thinking of doing some investing?”

“No. It’s Cameron I’d like to meet with. Word is, he’s working on a new video game and I’ve got some ideas to speed graphics. I’d prefer to work with an independent—”

“Done.” Ian wasn’t ready to dive into a discussion full of technojargon, but he knew his younger brother would speak Bentley’s language. Cameron was the family tech guy since he owned a video game business in addition to his role in McNeill Resorts. “I’ll put him in touch with you.”

Seeing his friend out the door, Ian returned to the photo of Lydia Whitney he’d left on the window ledge. He felt the kick-to-the-chest sensation all over again. He needed to see her in person to get to the bottom of this. He’d thought they were finished forever when she broke things off last spring. But clearly, there was unfinished business between them.

Pivoting on the heel of one Italian leather loafer, Ian pressed the intercom button on his phone to page his assistant. In seconds, Mrs. Trager appeared in his doorway, tablet in hand.

“Yes, Mr. McNeill?” The older woman was efficient and deferential in a public setting, but she’d been with him long enough that she didn’t pull punches when they worked together privately.

“I need to find a consulting gig, and I’m willing to take a pay cut to secure the right one. It doesn’t matter where it is in the world, as long as you can get me onto a project where Lydia Whitney is providing the design services.”

Despite the highly unusual request, Mrs. Trager didn’t even blink as she tapped buttons on the digital tablet. “I just read in an architectural trade that Ms. Whitney recently committed to Singer Associates for a hotel renovation on South Beach.”

“Good.” He knew Jeremy Singer well. The guy only bought highly specialized properties that he liked to turn into foodie havens. “I’ll call Jeremy myself. Once I speak to him, I’ll let you know how soon I’ll need a flight.”

“Very good.” His assistant tucked the tablet under one arm. “I forwarded you an article about the property.”

“Thank you.” Settling back into the chair behind his oversize desk while Mrs. Trager closed the door behind her, Ian had a plan already taking shape.

He had met Lydia on a shared job site a little over a year ago. Working closely together to develop a unique property had meant they spent long hours in each other’s company. Once Lydia realized who she’d be working with, she might very well try to detach herself from the Singer project, but she was too much of a professional to simply walk off a job site.

Which gave Ian at least a few days to figure out what in the hell was going on with Lydia Whitney.

She’d taken some anonymous revenge against him, it seemed, and he had every intention of calling her on it. But first things first, he needed to slip back into her world in a way that wouldn’t send her running. Once he had her in his sights, he would figure out how to exact a payback of his own.

He’d never considered himself the kind of man who could blackmail a woman into his bed. But with the surge of anger still fresh in his veins at this betrayal Ian planned to keep all his options open.

* * *

Tilting her head back, Lydia Whitney savored the Miami sun. The weather was still beautiful at eight o’clock in the morning before the real heat and humidity set in. Seated at her outdoor table at the News Café on Ocean Drive, she had a breeze off the water and a perfect cup of coffee to start her day before her first meeting for the new interior design job on South Beach.

The swish of the ocean waves rolling onto the shore, along with the rustle of palm fronds, was a persistent white noise. Foot traffic on both sides of Ocean Drive was brisk even though June was a quieter time for the tourist area. The tables near her were both empty, so she felt no need to rush through her coffee or her splurge breakfast of almond brioche French toast. No one was waiting for her table. She could linger over her newspaper, catching up on the Manhattan social scene.

Perhaps, if she was a more dedicated interior designer, she’d be studying the other recent hotel renovations on South Beach so she could ensure she approached her new job with a singular, distinctive style. But she didn’t work like that, preferring to let her muse make up her own mind once she saw the plans and the proposed space.

Instead, Lydia read the social pages with the same avid interest that other women devoted to watching the Real Housewives series. She soaked in all the names and places, checking to see who was newly single or newly engaged. It was all highly relevant because, in her secret second job, Lydia still did some moonlighting as a matchmaker to Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. It was a job she couldn’t seem to give up, no matter that she’d had to leave the high-end dating service that had allowed her to work under the alias of “Mallory West.”

There’d been a bit of a scandal last winter, forcing Lydia to leave town and take a brief hiatus from matchmaking. Her life had been too full of scandals to allow for another, so she’d buried herself in design work for the next few months, ignoring the tabloid speculation about the true identity of Mallory West. But she’d missed the high drama and the lucrative second income of the matchmaking work, especially since she donated 100 percent of those profits to a charity dear to her heart.

“More coffee, miss?” A slim blonde waitress in a black tee and cargo shorts paused by her table, juggling an armful of menus and a coffeepot.

“No, thank you.” Lydia switched off the screen on her tablet by habit, accustomed to protecting her privacy at all times. “I’m almost finished anytime you want to bring the check.” She should be early for her first meeting, even if she hadn’t done a lot of design homework to prep for it.

Singer Associates, the firm that had hired her to overhaul the interior of the landmark Foxfire Hotel, had been good to her over the years. The firm had hired her for the job where she’d met Ian McNeill, she recalled. Perhaps that had been the only time where a Singer Associates job had a snag attached, since her disastrous affair with Ian had broken her heart in more ways than one.

But that certainly hadn’t been Jeremy Singer’s fault.

Stuffing in one last bite of the almond brioche French toast, Lydia promised herself to arrive earlier for breakfast tomorrow so she could people watch on Ocean Drive. Most of her potential matchmaking clientele fled to the Hamptons or Europe this time of year, not Miami. But there were always interesting international travelers in South Beach, no matter the season. Not to mention the fresh-faced models who were a dime a dozen on this stretch of beach. And wealthy men were always interested in models and actresses. It couldn’t hurt to keep her ears and eyes open for prospects as long as she was in town.

Retrieving her leather tote from the chair beside her, Lydia paid her bill and dialed her assistant back in New York as she walked south on Ocean Drive toward the Foxfire Hotel.

Traffic crawled by as tourists snapped photos of the historic art deco buildings in the area. The cotton candy colors of the stucco walls wouldn’t work as well anywhere but at the beach. Here, the pinks and yellows blended with the colorful sunrises and sunsets, while the strong, geometric lines balanced the soft colors. The Foxfire Hotel had lost some of its early grandeur in misguided attempts to update the property, with subsequent owners covering up the decorative spandrels and fluting around doors and windows. Her contract with Singer Associates—the new owner—had assured her those details would be recovered and honored wherever possible.

“Good morning, Lydia.” Her assistant, Kinley, answered the call with her usual morning enthusiasm. The younger woman was at her desk shortly after dawn, a feat made easier by the fact that she sublet rooms in Lydia’s Manhattan apartment for a nominal fee. “Did you need anything for your morning meeting?”

“No. I’m all set, thanks. But it occurred to me that I could collect some contacts while I’m down here for our second business.” Pausing outside the Foxfire, she knew Kinley would understand her meaning and her desire to be discreet. “I wondered if you could see who we know is in South Beach this month and maybe wrangle some fun party invites for me?”

“Are we ready to dive back into the dating world?” Kinley asked. In the background, Lydia heard her turn down the brain-tuning music that her assistant used while she was working.

“I think we’ve lain low for long enough.” Lydia had quit working with the bigger dating agency when Kinley had paired a prominent client with a ballerina who was unaware she’d landed on a list of potential brides.

The snafu hadn’t been Kinley’s fault; it was caused by the ballerina’s matchmaker, who’d listed her client in the wrong database. The incident had made the New York social pages, implicating “Mallory West” as potentially responsible. Instead of drawing attention to herself and her business, Lydia had simply withdrawn from the matchmaking world, mostly because the prominent client had actually been Ian McNeill’s younger brother, Cameron. Lydia hadn’t wanted to draw the attention of her former lover just when she’d finally been starting to heal from their breakup.

And from the loss of the pregnancy she’d never told him about. The punch to her gut still happened when she thought about it. But the ache had dulled to a more manageably sized hurt.

“Music to my ears.” Kinley’s grin was obvious in her tone of voice. “I’ve been keeping our files up-to-date for just this moment so we’d be ready to go when you gave the okay.”

“Excellent. Look for some South Beach parties then.” She checked her watch. “I’ll touch base with you after the meeting.”

“Got it. Good luck.” Kinley disconnected the call.

Lydia entered the building, her eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness. The hotel had been closed since the property had changed hands, and was a construction site. Lights were on in the lobby, but some remodeling efforts were already underway with the space torn down to the studs.

“Right this way, ma’am.” An older man dressed in crisp blue jeans and wearing a yellow construction hat gestured her toward the back of the lobby where plywood had been laid over the sawdust on the floor. “You must be here for the new owner’s meeting.” At her nod, he extended a hand. “I’m Rick, the foreman.”

She quickened her step, approaching to shake his hand and blinking at the bright white light dangling from an orange electric cord thrown over a nearby exposed rafter.

“Nice to meet you.” She’d learned early in her career to make friends with the site supervisor wherever possible since that person usually had a better handle on the job than whatever upper level manager was put on the project.

“We’ve got you set up at a table in the courtyard.” He gestured to two glass doors in the back leading to a broad space of smooth pavers and manicured landscaping open to natural sunlight. “Just through there.”

“Great.” She straightened the strap on her leather tote and smoothed a hand over her turquoise sheath dress. She wished she’d found a restroom before she left the News Café so she could have touched up her lipstick and checked her hair; she hadn’t expected the conditions at the Foxfire to still be so rough. “It’s a beautiful day to enjoy the outdoors.”

“For another hour, maybe.” Rick chuckled to himself. “You New Yorkers all like the heat until you’re here for a few days in the summer.”

Yes, well. There might be a smidge of truth to that. She’d probably be melting this afternoon. Thanking him, Lydia pushed through the glass door on the right, her eye already picking out a wicker chair off to one side of a large wrought iron table. She was glad to be early so she could pull over the wicker seat and save herself from sitting on wrought iron for however long this meeting lasted.

A small water feature burbled quietly in the open-air courtyard, sending up a soft spray of mist as it tumbled over smooth rocks and landed in a scenic pool surrounded by exotic plantings. Dwarf palms mingled with a few taller species that attracted a pair of squawking green parrots. High up, at the top of the building, a retractable canopy over part of the space dimmed the sun a bit without blocking it completely.

“Lydia.” She turned her head sharply to one side to find the source of the familiar baritone.

She hadn’t heard that voice in over a year. It couldn’t be...

“Ian?” She felt that breathless punch to her gut again, harder than it had been this morning when she’d thought of her lost pregnancy.

Ian McNeill stood in the far corner of the room beside a Mexican-style tea cart laden with silver ice buckets and cold, bottled drinks, his strong arms crossed over his chest. His slightly bronzed skin that hinted at his Brazilian mother’s heritage made his blue eyes all the more striking. His dark hair was short at the sides and longer on top, still damp from a morning shower. He was impeccably groomed in his crisp dark suit, gray shirt and blue tie.

Ian McNeill. The lover who’d broken her heart. The man who’d kept his profile on a matchmaker’s site while he dated her, prompting her to go into the matchmaking business just so she could try her hand at sending horrible dating prospects his way. She’d outgrown the foolish need for vengeance after she’d lost their baby. So it had been an accident when she’d paired Ian’s brother with that famous ballerina.

How much did Ian know about any of that?

“Nice to see you, Lydia,” he said smoothly, approaching her with the languid grace of a lifelong athlete. “A real pleasure to be working with you again.”

His eyes held hers captive for a long moment while she debated what he meant by “pleasure.” The word choice hadn’t been an accident. Ian was the most methodical man she’d ever met.

“I didn’t know—” She faltered, trying to make sense of how she could have taken a job where Ian McNeill played any role. “That is, Jeremy Singer never told me—”

“He and I agreed to exchange peer review services on a couple of random properties—a recent idea we had to keep our project managers on their toes and revitalize the work environment.” Ian brought a bottled water to the table and set it down before tugging over the wicker chair for her. “I was pleased to hear you were in line for this job, especially since you and I work so well together.”

He held the chair for her. Waiting.

Her heart thrummed a crazy beat in her chest. She could not take a job where she’d be working under Ian.

Oh, God.

She couldn’t even think about being under Ian without heat clawing its way up her face.

And, of course, those blue eyes of his didn’t miss her blush. He seemed to track its progress avidly as the heat flooded up her neck and spilled onto her cheeks, pounding with a heartbeat all its own.

When the barest hint of a smile curved his full, sculpted lips, Lydia knew he wasn’t here by accident. It had all been by design. She wasn’t sure how she knew. But something in Ian’s expression assured her it was true.

She opened her mouth to argue. To tell him they wouldn’t be working together under any conditions. But just then the glass doors opened again and the job engineer strode into the room with Rick, the foreman she’d met briefly. Behind them, two other women she didn’t know appeared deep in conversation about the history of the Foxfire, comparing notes about the size of the original starburst sign that hung on the front facade.

Lydia’s gaze flicked to Ian, but the opportunity to tell him what she thought about his maneuvering was lost. She’d have to get through this meeting and speak to Jeremy Singer herself since she couldn’t afford to walk off a job.

But there was no way she could work with the man who’d betrayed her.

Even if he affected her now as much as ever.