LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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

Скачать книгу