LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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