Matchmaker, Matchmaker Read online

  MATCHMAKER,MATCHMAKER

  He was a cowboy looking for a wife; she was a lady who specialized in brides. They were made for each other… they just didn’t know it yet.

  Includes special bonus material at the end of this book!

  ~

  Copyright 2012 by Donna Ball Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  www.DonnaBall.net

  Published by Blue Merle Publishing

  Drawer H

  Mountain City Georgia 30562

  www.bluemerlepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and places in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and no effort should be made to construe them as real. Any resemblance to any actual people, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  A slightly different version of this book was originally published by Silhouette Books under the pseudonym Donna Carlisle. This edition has been updated for modern tastes and revised to suit the author’s preferences.

  Cover art by www.Bigstock.com

  ONE

  Shane Bartlett spent a moment studying the dark-paneled office door, but the discreet gold numbers told him nothing except that he had found the right address. Behind that door could have been anything from a dentist's office to a high-priced brothel. He pushed open the door cautiously, fully prepared to bolt if he didn't like what he saw.

  One brief glance around reassured him somewhat. The walls were covered with a dark blue floral print and hung with snapshots of wedding couples and babies. The carpet was a soothing light blue and the sofas were covered in a matching print. There were many small tables, also crowded with framed photographs, and a silver tea service in one corner. The only sign that this was a place of business was a small desk with curved legs which was set against a window, and it was empty. Shane could have been walking into his grandmother's parlor—if he had a grandmother and if she had a parlor. The entire effect was homey and welcoming, designed to put a visitor at ease, and Shane relaxed as he came inside and closed the door behind him. A soft chime announced his arrival.

  He looked around for a moment, wondering what he was supposed to do now, and finally decided he was expected to take a seat on one of the miniature sofas and wait. There was no one else waiting but him, which was another thing he liked—discretion, as in a psychiatrist's office where appointments were scheduled so that one patient wouldn't meet another in the waiting room. Not, of course, that Shane Bartlett had ever been in a psychiatrist's office, any more than he had ever been in a place like this.

  He started to feel uneasy again as he pushed his Stetson back on his head and lowered his long frame onto the sofa. He tried leaning back, crossing one booted ankle over his knee, then sat forward again on the edge of the sofa. The room was too quiet, and too small. The silence he could tolerate; he had known a lot of that. But he still wasn't used to being under a real roof, and everything in Dallas was much smaller than he had been led to believe.

  An inner door opened, and Shane sprang to his feet as a plump, matronly-looking woman came through. Her hair was gray, her dress was a flower-printed silk and her smile was warm. "You must be Mr. Bartlett," she said.

  He quickly swept off his hat, embarrassed that he hadn't thought to do it before. He had been living with men too long; it was obvious his manners needed a little polishing. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "I called."

  She extended a plump, soft hand. "I'm Emma Humphrey. I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

  The last of Shane's doubts disappeared as he took the woman's hand. Even her name sounded as if it belonged to someone's mother, and she smelled of lavender. This might not be so bad, after all.

  She went behind the desk and picked up a clipboard with several papers on it. "We have a questionnaire we'd like you to fill out. Everything is confidential, I assure you. If you'll just have a seat..."

  Shane took the clipboard and flipped through the papers dubiously. Twelve pages, small print. He looked back at her. "Ma'am," he said, "I once went to an army recruiting office. They handed me a bunch of papers like this to fill out. I always did think the army missed a hell of a deal."

  He handed the clipboard to her, and her expression was puzzled. "I'm not much for writing things down," he said by way of explanation. "The way I figure it, life's too short. Couldn't we just talk about this?"

  She hesitated. "Well, it really isn't routine...." Then she smiled, seeming to sense his discomfort, and picked up the telephone. "Perhaps in your case we can put the interview first. Let me see if Miss Averil has time to see you now."

  He was dismayed. "You mean there's another one? I thought you—"

  She smiled and spoke into the receiver “Cassie, Mr. Bartlett is here. Yes, but he wanted to talk to you first.”

  There was silence, during which Shane considered abandoning the entire project. This thing was quickly getting more complicated than he had counted on. Explaining the situation to this sweet, motherly -looking woman was one thing, but trying to impress a complete stranger.... Shane was beginning to think he would have been better off taking out an ad in the paper.

  After a moment, Emma replaced the telephone and smiled at him again, indicating the door through which she had recently entered. “Just go right in. Miss Averil will be glad to talk to you.”

  From the part of the conversation he had heard, Shane doubted that, but he followed her instructions, anyway. The minute he opened the door to the inner office, his misgivings were confirmed.

  Cassie Averil was not only young, she was pretty, too... or almost pretty. Of course Shane had been in the wilderness for so long that anything that didn’t wear horseshoes or bite would look pretty to him, so he didn’t entirely trust his own judgment. Her hair, a rich dark auburn, was pulled back from her face in a tight bun. She wore huge tortoiseshell glasses which, by accident or design, picked up the coppery highlights in her hair. Her skin was fair, her cheekbones rounded, her mouth a little too wide. She was wearing a dark suit and a stiff-collared white blouse, and when she stood up Shane immediately revised his first impression. She had almost no hips, and very little up front to speak of. That was disappointing.

  She extended her hand. "Mr. Bartlett, I'm Cassandra Averil. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  She had a honey-smooth Southern drawl, which Shane liked. But her handclasp was cool, and so was her voice. Despite the drawl, Shane decided he had seen dozens of girls in Dallas who were prettier than she was, and they didn't bother to hide it behind men's suits and tortoiseshell glasses. He began to feel marginally more comfortable.

  "Please, have a seat." She indicated the green brocade chair drawn up in front of her desk. "What can I do for you?"

  Shane decided right there that there was nothing to do but plunge right in. He had come too far to back down now.

  He sat down, crossed his ankle over his knee, and said, "You can find me a woman."

  Cassie kept her face expressionless. She looked him over carefully, from his curly hair to the well-worn bottoms of his dusty cowboy boots, and idly wondered what century he was from. His coloring was in shades of a Texas sandstorm—light brown hair, deep brown eyes, coppery brown skin. His stamped leather vest was expensive, the jeans and shirt ordinary, the silver belt buckle garish. The hat was too much, and the boots—well, they did look as though they had come from another century, and had walked clear through to this one.

  He was good-looking enough, with a firm jaw and a slight shading that suggested five-o'clock shadow, lips that were full without being too sensual, and a frank, well-set gaze. His nose was a little big. He was tall, close to six-four,
unless she missed her guess, but he didn't stoop the way a lot of tall men did. He had strong, straight shoulders and he bore them with natural grace, which was a pleasant change from men who spent five days a week at the gym developing biceps and abs, and then walked as though they were carrying a balancing board across their shoulders. His handclasp had been strong and work-roughened, and she knew those shoulder muscles hadn't come from lifting weights. He had long, lean thighs, and not one ounce of spare flesh curled over that gaudy belt buckle. Taken piece by piece, he was an attractive man, and there were a lot of women who liked the rugged cowboy type. Cassie wasn't one of them.

  Under other circumstances she would have been more charitable, but she had had a rotten day and the last thing she needed at the end of it was for some overconfident caveman to come strolling into her office and demand that she "find him a woman." It was the kind of thing that made her wonder, more and more, why she had ever gotten into this business.

  As her silence lengthened, Shane asked a little anxiously, "That is what you do, isn't it? Find women?"

  Cassie took a small breath. "We are not an escort service, Mr. Bartlett."

  "Good." He relaxed again. "Because I'm not looking for an escort. I'm looking for a wife."

  Once again Cassie managed to hide her reaction. This man ordered a wife as easily as he would have ordered a steak, medium rare, extra potatoes and hold the sour cream. She went on, "We make social introductions based on probable compatibility for the purpose of companionship and, hopefully, romance. Naturally we're always happy when our introductions lead to long-term relationships, but I'm sure you understand that we make no guarantees."

  Shane stared at her for a moment. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard anyone use so many words to say so little. He jerked a thumb toward the door. "You call yourself Matchmakers, Inc., right? All those pictures on the wall outside—they're of people you got married, aren't they? Well, that's what I'm here for. To get married."

  This time Cassie couldn't help it; she stared at him. This man cannot be for real, she thought. She started to make a mental list of all the people she knew who might consider this kind of practical joke funny, but the man sitting opposite her looked perfectly sincere. And why not? After the kind of day she had had, why in the world not?

  She cleared her throat and picked up her pen. "Well, I must say it's refreshing to meet someone who knows what he wants," she murmured.

  "That's the only way to get anywhere in this world," he replied confidently. "Make up your mind what you want and then go for it.''

  Cassie tapped her pen absently against her notepad, still examining him carefully for some sign of a joke. He gave none. "Well," she said abruptly. "Why don't you start by telling me something about yourself?"

  He seemed a bit skeptical. "Like what?"

  "Like how old you are, what you do for a living..."

  “Oh.” He leaned back and rested his elbows on the narrow arms of the chair, which seemed too small for him. The checked material of his shirt tightened nicely across his chest as he did so.

  "I'm thirty-two years old, and I've spent the past fifteen of those years working on the pipeline in Alaska. Now I don't do much of anything if I can help it."

  She lifted an eyebrow. "Retired?"

  "Well, I'm not saying I'm a billionaire or anything, but I've done okay for myself. I'm well able to support a wife, if that's what you're asking."

  "I see." This was getting more interesting by the minute. It could still be a joke, but...

  "I don't mean to rush you, but I've got some things I'd like to do this afternoon, so why don't I just tell you what I'm looking for and you can get to work?"

  "I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than that, Mr. Bartlett."

  He waved a dismissing hand. "Nothing's complicated unless you make it. Do you have any pictures or videotapes or anything like that I can look at?"

  "This is not a police station, Mr. Bartlett," Cassie replied coolly. "We do not keep mug shots. This is a highly exclusive, personalized service and our clients respect our discretion just as much as we respect their privacy."

  The import of her speech was lost on him as he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Well, it doesn't matter. You just take notes and I'll tell you what to look for. First of all, I like blondes. Natural blondes. About twenty, twenty-two—"

  “We often find," Cassie interrupted firmly, "that a large age difference isn't conducive to compatibility. Perhaps you should consider—"

  "I expect to have lots of kids," he said, as though that explained everything.

  Cassie's hand tightened on the pen.

  "Not too small," he went on. "I don't like bending over when I'm looking at a woman. And a little on the fleshy side, if you know what I mean. Hips and bosoms, you know."

  Cassie kept her tone civil with difficulty. This man was really too much. "Shall we say a size thirty-six C?"

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I don't know too much about sizes, but that sounds about right." He cleared his throat and went on more confidently. "I like long hair, too, and not too much makeup. Kind of natural-looking."

  Cassie smiled tightly. "The natural look is sometimes hard to find in a wind-up doll."

  "Well, I'm not saying she has to be perfect. Not a beauty queen, or anything. But pretty. No sense pretending I don't like pretty women, is there?"

  "No, not at all." Cassie leaned back and spread her hands expansively. "I want you to be perfectly frank about what you like. How else will we be able to please you? Now, so far we have a twenty-year-old blond with long hair and thirty-six C cups who's into childbearing and isn't too short. Anything else?"

  But her sarcasm was lost on him as he answered, "Well, she shouldn't talk too much. She should like to cook, and bake—pies and cakes especially. And she should like to do things for a man, you know? Little things, like running his bath and making him a drink without his asking for it. I guess it should go without saying that she shouldn't have a roving eye. And don't give me any of these career types. I want a woman who likes to make a home for a man and be there for him."

  Cassie kept her eyes on her notepad, where she was making sharp, geometric doodles. "I assume she should be free of disease and have good teeth?"

  For the first time he sounded a little taken aback. "Now don't get me wrong. I know this isn't a mail order catalog or anything."

  She looked up at him. "Neither is it an a la carte restaurant. We don't keep models on the back shelves just waiting for someone to come in and place an order." She didn't know why she was letting him get to her; another time she would have been amused. But after the accumulated tensions of the day, an encounter with a world-class chauvinist was the last straw. Her voice rose a little as she said, "Let me ask you something, Mr. Bartlett. This woman you're looking for— is it all right if she thinks occasionally? And if she's read one or two books in her life, do you disqualify her?"

  He frowned. "Of course not. I mean, yeah, sure I want her to think. What I'm trying to say is—"

  "And I suppose you want her to be a virgin, too?"

  She actually thought he flushed. "Well, I didn't say that, but—"

  "And maybe if she's a good girl in between kids, you might take her for a ride in the car with the top down."

  He shuffled in his seat. "Now listen, Miss—"

  "Ms.," Cassie corrected tightly.

  He looked uncertain. "Listen, maybe I'm going about this the wrong way, but it just seemed to me it would be easier all the way around if I told you what kind of woman I'm looking for. I don't know what I did to make you mad, but I thought this was the kind of thing you did. If it's not, just say so."

  Cassie took a deep breath and stood slowly, bracing her palms against the desk. "Mr. Bartlett," she said, very calmly, "as I've tried to explain to you before, what we do at Matchmakers is to introduce compatible people to each other. Our clientele is largely composed of earnest, sincere business people who are genuinely looking fo
r a relationship but lack the time or social contacts to form one in the more conventional fashion. We cannot manufacture wives, or life-size dolls, for that matter. As for you..." She took another deep breath. "May I suggest you go out and find yourself a nice dog? A dog is loyal, obedient, doesn't talk too much, and will even fetch your slippers at night. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for you here at Matchmakers. Good day."

  After a moment Shane Bartlett picked up his hat and stood. He paused at the door and looked back with a puzzled expression on his face, and Cassie thought he would say more. But he apparently changed his mind and left the office without another word.

  When he was gone, Cassie sank back into her chair and blew out her breath through her teeth. She couldn't believe she had just talked to a potential client that way. She couldn't believe that with the rent ten days overdue and Final Notice stamped all over the telephone bill that she had just thrown a paying customer out of her office. She had been in this business too long; it was beginning to affect her nerves and judgment.

  The door opened and Emma poked her head in. "Well, that was quick."

  Cassie looked up at her. "Tell me something, Emma. If a perfectly healthy, reasonably attractive-looking man walked in here demanding that you find a twenty-year-old blonde with C cups to bear his children, what would you do?"

  "If I were thirty years younger, I'd dye my hair and marry him. What did you do?"

  "Threw him out."

  "Not a wise move." Emma handed her an opened letter. "They're coming for the furniture on Monday."

  Cassie groaned out loud, pushed her glasses up onto her forehead and pressed her palms against her eyes. "Doesn't matter," she muttered after a moment, her voice muffled by her hands. "He didn't look as if he could afford our fee, anyway."

  "Wrong again." Emma sat down in the chair that Shane had just vacated, and Cassie looked up at her with more than a little trepidation. "Jack Sanders just called," Emma explained. "Seems he's the one who recommended your services to the young man in question. Jack is his architect, and Mr. Bartlett just bought the Long Acre property. He just wanted to make sure his friend got a proper introduction."