The Mandy Project Page 2

  Even so, clumsiness was something he could live with—his real doubts had developed once they’d started discussing the reason he’d gone there. The small redhead had looked nice enough—even if she didn’t particularly fit his taste, her short hair being more perky than sophisticated and her casual cotton skirt fitting the same short, perky description. Her bright eyes and smooth complexion were striking even if not classic. But the thing that had bothered him was her attitude. She’d left him with the idea that she’d found his simple request for a wife preposterous, and when she’d started trying to pry information from him, her emerald gaze had nearly bored a hole straight through his head.

  All Benton wanted was a few good women who had the traits he desired; he was capable of doing the getting-to-know-you part himself. And he certainly hadn’t popped into the heart-laden building ready to share personal things with a stranger.

  Why exactly do you wish to get married? He could still hear Mindy McCrae’s dainty voice curling around the question which, at that point, had sounded more like an accusation.

  So why exactly did he wish to get married? He pondered the question as he tooled across the grid of downtown Cincinnati streets.

  Well, because he was tired of attending business parties alone, for one thing. And a travel companion would be nice. For another, he’d wearied of hosting his own get-togethers.

  But more than that, he was a rich man with no one to share it with and no one to leave it to. His house was beautiful, but felt empty.

  And because my thirty-fifth birthday is fast approaching and whatever love is—if it even exists—it hasn’t found me yet, so it’s probably not going to.

  It just felt to him like it was time—that simple.

  But he didn’t particularly think any of that was Miss McCrae’s—or was that Ms. McCrae’s?—business.

  Ten minutes later, he exited the elevator on the twenty-fifth floor of the Carew Tower into the Maxwell Group lobby. He nodded shortly to silver-haired Claudia, then headed down the hall toward the conference room. After stepping through the open door and firmly shutting it behind him, he took his place at the head of the oval table, where eight associates waited for him. “I apologize for my tardiness. Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Miss Binks sat to his right, her long, dark blond hair pushed up into a loose, stylish bun, her silver-framed glasses balanced precariously on the tip of her pointed nose, looking as pleased to see him as he would have predicted. “You’re here,” she said with a half-smile.

  For a bright woman, Miss Binks had a way of stating the obvious. “Yes, I am.”

  Young Malcolm Wainscott, Benton’s Clark Kent-like apprentice, sat further down the table, casting Miss Binks an adoring gaze, but as usual, she didn’t notice.

  Meanwhile, Percy Callendar—a long-time employee and one of few in the company, including himself, who Benton thought of as having a sense of humor—grinned, his balding head gleaming beneath the room’s fluorescent lights. “Good that you called. We were about to send out a search party.”

  Miss Binks’ small smile persisted as they all opened the binders before them, and Benton suffered a short stab of guilt imagining how she would feel if she knew what had made him late, and how much worse she’d soon feel when he announced his engagement.

  “Would you like coffee before we get started, Mr. Maxwell?”

  He looked down to find Miss Binks actually touching his sleeve. This was new. He raised his gaze to hers, wondering if his surprise showed.

  “No thank you, Miss Binks.” He pulled his arm away, hoping no one was getting any funny ideas. Then he shifted his gaze to Percy, who headed the budget committee—a silent nudge to get the show on the road.

  Though as Percy launched into a long-winded presentation, Benton’s thoughts drifted. Maybe he’d think about doing a little matchmaking of his own in the near future. It had never occurred to him to push Miss Binks toward Malcolm Wainscott, and it wasn’t the sort of thing he normally involved himself in, but since he’d be dealing with his impending wife hunt in the coming weeks anyway, it seemed an apropos occasion to deal in such uncharacteristic matters. He didn’t need Miss Binks getting any more enamored of him than she already was, and he’d always thought she and Malcolm would be well-suited if she’d only get her head out of the sand.

  And as for who suited Benton, well, he’d have to see what Matchmaker Mindy came up with. Yet for some unidentifiable reason, as the meeting progressed, he struggled with the niggling idea that he’d made a terrible mistake trusting Mindy McCrae.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Maxwell?” It was Miss Binks again.

  Upon lifting his gaze to find her pale brown eyes widened on him, he could only conclude that perhaps he’d started looking ill. “No,” he said staunchly. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Nothing except that I’ve placed the search for the future Mrs. Maxwell in the clumsy hands of a woman who can’t even manage an ice cream cone. He had the unshakable feeling that his dates were going to end up just as messy.

  Chapter Two

  The following afternoon, Mindy slumped over on her desk in despair. She’d been scouring her female client database for hours and had yet to find anyone who fit Benton Maxwell’s criteria—at least in the personality department. After all, it was the twenty-first century and none of the women who used Mindy’s service aspired to be someone’s lapdog. Today’s women had careers, ambitions; they were seeking companions to share their lives with, not pining to be some male chauvinist’s lesser half. Besides, she liked her clients, and sending any of them on a date with him seemed like client abuse.

  The tinkle of the heart-shaped bell above her door shook Mindy from her thoughts, and she looked up to find Jane whisking in with two ice cream cones clutched in her fists. “You just missed a cutie on the sidewalk, Min. Classic guy next door. Even walking a cute little dog, one of those white ones that look like a mop. He was perfect for you.”

  Mindy considered asking, The guy or the mop? but her heart just wasn’t in it. She only let out a sigh, caring even less than usual about Jane’s manhunting expeditions. “I’m doomed,” she bemoaned balefully, accepting her second mint chocolate chip ice cream cone in two days. She only hoped she could keep this one from spattering on the sidewalk, or on a client. Although an evil little part of her began to fantasize about her melty scoop from yesterday landing a little more to the left, or the right, on one of Benton Maxwell’s fancy shoes. Or better yet, sliding down one leg of that custom suit. Shoes could be wiped off—suits were a little more complicated. If the man walked through the door right now, she’d almost be tempted to make it happen. Then maybe he’d demand his money back and go elsewhere. As it was, she felt honor-bound to see her obligation to him through to the best of her ability, since she had accepted his money quickly enough when she’d seen how much he was willing to pay.

  “So he’s really that bad, huh?” Jane asked, settling behind her desk with a dip of raspberry sherbet.

  “Yes, for the tenth time, he’s really that bad.” Jane had missed Benton Maxwell’s entire visit yesterday, and had seemed skeptical of Mindy’s account of what happened. She took a determined lick of ice cream as if to drive the point home.

  Yet Jane still seemed devastated, frowning at Mindy over her cone. “But he was so tall, and so dark.”

  With her free hand, Mindy plucked up the now-crumpled list of attributes he’d left for her, waving it in the air. “Knows when to defer to my judgment,” Mindy reminded Jane sharply.

  Jane tilted her head, as if begging Mindy to say it wasn’t so. “And so steamy.”

  “Intelligent when necessary,” Mindy said. “When necessary!”

  “And don’t forget rich.” Jane held up one finger. “I might be able to figure out when it’s necessary to be intelligent if I could bag a man that rich.”

  “Jane!” Mindy scolded, glaring in disbelief. “He’s a pig! And he didn’t even care enough about this process to let me interview him.” A g
lance down revealed that her ice cream was melting, so she took a quick lick before adding, “Believe it or not, sometimes there’s more to life—and even lust—than tall, dark and steamy.”

  “Why don’t you want a man?”

  Mindy flinched, taken aback. “Huh?”

  Jane’s eyes narrowed on her suspiciously. “You heard me. Why don’t you want a man? The rest of us want a man. And it doesn’t mean we’re weak or spineless or dependent—it just means we want a man. We want companionship, love. If nothing else, we want sex. So why not you? How can a woman who has carved out a livelihood by finding men for other people be truly happy without a man for herself?”

  Mindy sighed as the dismay in her chest tightened into a hard little knot, then shifted her gaze back to the pale green ice cream starting to trickle down onto her hand. Scowling at the cone as she gave up without a fight and chucked it in the garbage, she grabbed up a tissue, wiped off her fingers, then swung her attention back to her laptop. “Jane, this really isn’t the time for another man lecture. I have to find a date for Benton Maxwell.”

  “Ah.” Jane threw her head back in a short, abrupt nod.

  Mindy cast a sideways glance. “Ah? What is ah?”

  “Ah just means that clearly there’s more to the picture than meets the eye. Ah means I’ve uncovered a chink in your armor, my friend.”

  “A chink in my armor? What armor? What are you talking about?”

  Jane’s mouth simply curled into a small, self-satisfied smile. “You know good and well what I’m talking about. If you really don’t want a man, there’s a reason why. But you don’t have to tell me—I won’t pry anymore. I’m sure it’ll come out someday, whenever you’re ready to share.”

  “Jane, you watch too much TV, read too many books. In real life, not everyone who doesn’t follow the social trends has some deep-seated problem. Some people are just different.”

  Jane gave her head a thoughtful tilt, then widened her eyes. “Are you a lesbian?”

  “Jane!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it if you are. I just thought maybe—”

  “I am not a lesbian, okay? I’m just…not hopeful when it comes to guys, that’s all.”

  What she’d told Jane was true; there was no deep secret, no tragic heartbreak in her past. But there was also no great love. Maybe tragic heartbreak would have been better than the emptiness of not knowing what she was missing. That must be what people meant, she thought, when they said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Yet as it was, she’d just never found any guys who made her heart go zing!

  Over the years, she’d dated men who reminded her of Benton Maxwell in ways, and certainly that hadn’t worked out. And she’d also dated men who were Benton Maxwell’s polar opposites, men who were sweet and respectful and sensitive and…boring, when all was said and done. She’d dated men who irritated her, men with annoying habits, and men who thought themselves far funnier than they actually were. She’d dated men who dressed well and men who dressed badly; she’d dated men totally devoted to her, and others who were totally devoted to themselves. She’d dated a lot of men, but she’d never found even one who truly fit with her, who truly made her get the whole man/woman thing.

  Because of her job, she believed in love, of course—wholeheartedly. She’d seen too many happy people to dispute it, and she was downright gifted at putting those people together. Even before opening the service, she’d possessed an undeniable gift for fixing people up, at seeing traits and personalities that meshed—that’s how her business had gotten started.

  But at twenty-nine, Mindy had washed her hands of that eternal personal search—she was good at searching for others, but searching for herself had proven fruitless. And she really was fine with being manless. She didn’t know why that little knot grew in her chest when she thought about it sometimes, but she was fine.

  Refocusing her gaze on the same computer screen she’d been staring at all afternoon, she finally sighed, slapped her palm on her desk and announced, “I’ve made a decision.”

  “You want me to track down the cutie with the pooch,” Jane said.

  “No, I want you to go down the street to the hobby shop and buy a set of darts.”

  Jane’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “Darts?”

  Mindy nodded solemnly. “Darts.”

  While Jane was gone, Mindy printed out her entire list of female clients who at least fit Benton Maxwell’s physical parameters. Beyond that, there was no narrowing it down, so Mindy figured there was only one sensible way to approach this and end her suffering.

  When Jane returned, they taped the list of names to the wall. Mindy removed the flowered scarf from her neck and instructed Jane to tie it around her head and point her in the right direction.

  The first dart ricocheted off the wall, striking Mindy’s desk before skidding across the floor, and making Jane squeal, “Hey, watch it.” The second, however, hit home with a nice, solid, little phlunk. Mindy removed the scarf from her eyes and stepped forward to see who the unfortunate girl was. As luck would have it, however, the dart had landed directly between two names, so Mindy looked at Jane and said, “All the better. This takes care of two dates for him instead of just one.”

  Five minutes later, Mindy was on hold with Benton Maxwell’s office. Although she didn’t relish the idea of talking to him again, she’d decided to get as much of this over with at one time as possible.

  When he finally picked up, he sounded just as rushed as usual. “Benton Maxwell.” Though she’d forgotten how deep his voice was and it took her a little aback.

  “Mr. Maxwell, it’s Mindy McCrae. I’ve selected your first two dates and I’m calling to give you their phone numbers. I’ll contact them both this afternoon, so they’ll be expecting your call or text.”

  “Very good,” he said in a way that irritated her—but as she’d discovered yesterday, everything he said tended to irritate her.

  After she’d relayed the women’s names and numbers, Benton Maxwell asked, “And these women meet my criteria?”

  She sighed, further annoyed by his doubt, even if she couldn’t completely deny it being well-founded in this particular case. “Yes, they’re both lovely, intelligent women.”

  “What about the third woman? You did say I get three, right?”

  “I’m…still working on that one.” She tried to sound far more cheerful than she felt. “But hopefully, one of the first two will turn out to be the girl of your dreams and we won’t even get to the third.”

  Benton raced through the night, breezing through a yellow light, anxious to get his second date, Heather, home and out of his life. That Mindy woman was a nut. She had to be a nut if she actually thought either of the women she’d chosen were good matches for him.

  This evening had been a nightmare from start to finish, even worse than the first date with—what was her name? Chelsea, that was it—earlier this week.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” Heather asked, referring, he presumed, to his rate of speed. What he’d thought at the beginning of the date was a beautiful lady now looked like a piranha sitting next to him. The small blond predator clicked her long pink fingernails together as she sneered at him beneath the dim glare of streetlights. They looked as deadly as any weapon he’d ever seen.

  “No, just trying to bring this evening to an end and put us both out of our misery.”

  The first sign of trouble had come when Heather had informed him that if it were up to her, it would be illegal for anyone to own such an extravagant car when there were children starving in Ethiopia. He had explained that a man of his position had a reputation to maintain, a certain image to present, and that he also thought hard work deserved rewards, but she hadn’t bought a word of it.

  Things had gotten seriously worse, on a life-planning level, when she went on to say she was a professor of communications at the University of Cincinnati, loved her job, was working steadily toward tenure, and intended
to be there until retirement.

  “You wouldn’t be willing to change your plans if something life-altering happened? Say…marriage? To a man who might require your assistance in certain social aspects of his business?”

  She had simply glared at him and clicked her nails a little more furiously. Okay, so he hadn’t been subtle, but he’d thought Mindy of the Fluffy Hearts would have filled her in on what he wanted from a woman.

  After that, they’d bickered through dinner, and he got the idea she sincerely hated him, although he had no idea what he’d done to offend her so.

  Coming to a halt in front of her condo, he was prepared to at least walk his indignant date to her front porch, but she exited the car, said, “See ya around,” then slammed the door in his face before he even had a chance to react.

  His blood boiled even as he drove blessedly away from the little blond piranha-lady. He’d paid good money to meet females who basically wanted a life of luxury and leisure, and he wasn’t getting it. Frankly, he thought it should be easy, that women would be chomping at the bit to fill the role. How hard could it be? So much for Mindy McCrae’s astonishing success rate. Tomorrow he was going to pay her a little visit and give her a piece of his mind.

  “Again, Heather, I’m terribly sorry things worked out so poorly, and I’ll make certain it doesn’t happen again.” Mindy hung up the phone feeling like a heel for the second time in just a few days.

  Earlier in the week, Chelsea Barker had called to complain that Benton was nothing like any man her profile could possibly suggest, and although Mindy didn’t admit it, she knew truer words had never been spoken. “I got the idea he was just in a rush to get the date over with,” Chelsea had complained. “We rushed to the restaurant, we rushed through dinner, and—oh my God—he even ordered for me. Have you ever heard of anything so archaic?”

  Not before Benton Maxwell. Mindy had held her tongue, but frankly, she wasn’t in the least surprised that Benton Maxwell would think he could choose a woman’s meal better than she could. And obviously, Chelsea was not into deferring to Benton’s judgment. Not that Mindy could blame her, but a desperate matchmaker could hope against hope, couldn’t she?