The Marriage Maker

She tapped her toe against the honey-pine floor. “You’re not staying here are you?” she asked, her voice cool, she hoped, and not crabby.

Ethan’s head came up and so did his eyebrows.

Her mother smiled at the baby but addressed Cleo. “Ethan and Jonah have rented the Atchinson house.”

The Atchinson house. Oh, great. Another lakeside property not more than half a mile away. She crossed her arms over her chest. “So if you have your own place, what are you doing here?”

Her mother spoke again. “Ethan came to introduce me to Jonah. And I’m thrilled to meet this very handsome young man.” Celeste nuzzled the baby’s cheek and the little boy giggled again, his hands patting her hair.

Cleo softened a little. Her mother looked happier than she had in a long time, and obviously distracted from the terror of the night before.

Then Ethan spoke for the first time. “And I came to see if I could persuade you to go to dinner with me at the country club.”

Cleo took a step back. Oh, no. That wouldn’t be sensible or practical. Not when he was looking like the Golden God of Business in that Italian suit. Not when the last time they’d had dinner at the country club the evening had ended with her half dressed and nearly begging him for more.

“No,” she said firmly, and then smiled to herself. Some times sensible and practical felt darn good.

“Please, Cleo,” Ethan said quietly. “It might be the last time we ever meet.”

Cleo’s heart jumped. The last time. But then she narrowed her eyes, staring at him suspiciously. He didn’t look like a man who thought they would never meet again.

“Go ahead, sweetie,” her mother added. “I told Ethan I’d watch Jonah, and I can’t think of anything that would make me happier than watching this little angel.”

Cleo softened again. Her mother did look so darn happy holding that baby. To be honest, she itched to hold him herself. Without even thinking about it, she walked forward and sat beside her mother on the couch, then reached out toward Jonah. He immediately grabbed her hand and gave her a grin that made mush of everything inside her.

“Please come with me, Cleo,” Ethan said.

Looking at the motherless baby and sharing the joy her own mother had in just touching him, Cleo discovered her backbone had dissolved completely. She sighed and stroked Jonah’s cheek with her free hand.

“All right,” she said grudgingly. “This last time.” Because, anyway, could she really resist just one last time with Ethan? “I need a few minutes to change.”

He nodded. “Take all the time you need.”

In her room, Cleo whipped through a refreshing shower and then stood in her under wear, staring into her closet. What did a woman wear for a last dinner with the man she’d refused to marry? The man who considered her so practical and sensible?

The answer was obvious, of course. A woman should wear something completely impractical and as far from sensible as possible. Something that would make him sweat and make him drool.

But Cleo being Cleo, she had nothing remotely close to that in her closet.

She went wild, double-checking, flinging hangers aside with abandon until she had to admit the closest thing to “vamp” in her closet was the black witch’s costume she wore at Bean sprouts on Halloween. And even that was something that had been Jasmine’s first.

“Jasmine,” Cleo whispered. Her mother had said her sister was out for the evening, but Cleo dashed through their adjoining bathroom into her room, anyway. Without a moment’s compunction, she went double-fast through her sister’s double-stuffed closet and emerged clutching a long-sleeved black knit dress that was deeply veed in the front and back.

Not allowing herself to give in to doubt, she ran back to her own room and slipped into black stockings, black heels, and the dynamite black dress that had been bought by her less-curvy sister. Sitting at her dressing table, she twisted her wavy hair behind her head and held it back with a jeweled comb. Then she applied her makeup heavier than usual, not daring to look past her chin.

Once she’d blotted her lipstick, a shade named Derring Do, Cleo stood. With a deep breath, she turned around and looked at herself in the full-length mirror.

“Eek,” she said breathlessly. Where the dress had displayed a lot of Jasmine’s fragile clavicle and just a hint of her bust, on Cleo, the dress displayed a lot of bust and nothing, but nothing was hinted at. “Oh, boy,” she whispered.

Could she do it? With fingers that trembled just a little, she pulled a couple of wavy tendrils free from the twist of her hair, letting them drift softly around her face. Could she walk out there and face Ethan in something so…well, sophisticated instead of sensible?

Taking a deep breath—and then swearing to herself to not take another after what she noticed it did to her cleavage—Cleo gave herself one more objective, assessing look in the mirror.

And liked what she saw.

She strutted a couple of steps in her high heels, then made an about-face and walked past the mirror again. Yes, she thought. I’m going through with it.

Because she’d be darned if she was going to send Ethan out of her life with him remembering a boringly sensible, practical, capable Cleo. And if this dress didn’t make him look at her just a teensy bit differently, then her name wasn’t Cleo Kincaid Monroe.

By the time they’d left the B and B, settled into his Range Rover and driven to the White horn Country Club, Cleo was pretty sure that Ethan didn’t know what to think when he looked at her. While her mother had smiled and told Cleo how nice she looked, Ethan appeared to have swallowed his tongue. The miles to the country club had been covered in virtual silence and Cleo got the distinct feeling that Ethan was glad to have something to focus on besides her and the dress she was wearing.