Romantic Interludes Part 7

It was no accident that Emily was a matchmaker.

Throughout history, the Valentine women had been born with unique gifts to aid them in their mission to help love along. Her grandmother, Ellen, could see auras, and the distinctive way they changed when a person came into contact with the one they were meant to be with. Eve had an uncanny instinct about people, an ability to see what they really wanted, even if they didn't know it themselves or were unable to articulate it. She could also read the people closest to her in a rather unnerving way, able to pick out recent events in her loved ones' lives and actually feel the impact of them.

As for Emily, her gift was a tactile one-an ability to sense emotions and thoughts through touch. It was more than that, though. With a single brush of her fingers, she could map out the person's emotional makeup, a web of people joined together by threads of relationship. Some threads were thin, almost transparent-a sign of a casual acquaintance-some were heavy and strong, indicating family or close friends. But the bond of a soul mate was the strongest of all, and even if it hadn't yet been formed, Emily could see it in her mind, see the hole where that person should be. Once she received that emotional imprint, for lack of a better word, she was able to pinpoint with startling accuracy the love-match for her client, even from a photograph or an item of clothing. Although meeting the match in person gave her an even stronger response-a feeling of connection that was impossible to ignore.

She'd gone into the family business at the age of twelve, spending countless hours around the dining room table with her mother and grandmother as they'd met with clients. She had worked on her homework, munching on homemade cookies.

"Emily, this is Miss Johnson," her mother used to say, and Emily knew that was her cue.

She reached out politely to shake Miss Johnson's hand, absorbing the imprint with a friendly smile on her face. She sat down and went back to her homework, and after the client left, the three of them discussed the case. Eve narrowed down the possible matches, and Emily examined their photos until she found the right one. Then, when Miss Johnson finally met the man in question, Em's grandmother smiled with satisfaction at the sparkling auras mingling just so.

It worked perfectly, and Emily was happy. Until she'd turned eighteen years old and met her father.

Emily's mother had spoken of him rarely, always with glowing eyes and wistful words. Emily knew little of him other than his name and that he was Eve's true love. Her mother had never spoken of what happened to him other than to say that their destinies diverged and he'd had to follow his own path.

The three Valentine women had just celebrated Em's birthday with cake and a traditional toast made up of grape juice for Emily, supplemented with just a splash of champagne. She protested she was no longer a child when the doorbell rang. Emily saw her mother stiffen and pale, but it didn't really register until she flung the door open to find a tall man with dark hair and eyes-the mirror of Emily's own-standing on the front stoop, wringing a worn baseball cap in his hands. Emily glanced back to see her mother standing in the kitchen doorway, arms clutched tightly across her stomach.

The man nodded. "Eve."

"h.e.l.lo, Robert. You look well."

Robert.

Emily's eyes widened as she recognized him as the same man in the old, faded photograph on her mother's nightstand.

He extended a hand hesitantly. "h.e.l.lo, Emily." His voice was a low, warm rumble that tickled at her memory.

She had a flash of strong arms carrying her down a dark hallway-a thought that startled her so much she reached out before she thought better of it to take his hand.

Before she had a chance to brace herself.

The intensity of the emotion that blasted her buckled her knees and Emily staggered, her fingers tightening reflexively around his as his thoughts and feelings bombarded her senses. She felt it all-love, confusion, apprehension, concern-but sharpest of all, fear.

Emily blinked, looking up at his shocked gaze.

Fear. He feared her.

She pulled back as if burned, fingers flexing as the echoes of his emotions bounced around her mind. Robert glanced at Eve, eyes tightening before dropping to the floor.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't have come." With trembling hands, he pulled a small, wrapped box from his pocket and thrust it toward Emily. "Happy birthday. I'm . . . sorry."

And with that, he was gone.

That night, Emily heard her mother sobbing as she lay in her own bed, staring at the ceiling. She didn't need to touch her to feel the agony of her loss because in the instant she touched her father's hand, Emily knew-without a shadow of a doubt-that he was her mother's soul mate. She felt the all-consuming love they had for each other. The emptiness of being apart.

Yet, it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to squelch his overwhelming fear.

When Emily had been born, Eve had told him about all of it, the Valentine gift, their destiny, and he'd listened first with doubt, then shock, then finally, resignation.

He'd demanded a demonstration, of course, and Eve had given it to him. She'd thought it would solve all of their problems, but in the end, it had only made them worse. Because in addition to the ever-present fear, Eve had recognized something in him even more devastating.

Doubt.

He thought she'd manipulated him, somehow used her gifts to trick him into loving her. She'd tried to rea.s.sure him that it didn't work that way and that even if it did, it was something she would never, ever do. But though they both tried to make it through, the fear and doubt lingered, driving an ever-growing wedge between them.

In the end, he left.

Her mother told Emily everything the morning after her eighteenth birthday, and then never spoke of it again. And from that day forward, Emily wore her father's gift around her neck-a heart-shaped pendant engraved with her initial.

A constant reminder that love was not enough.

After that, Emily turned her back on her gift, refusing to touch anyone at all for a long time. Then, gradually, she learned to block it-shove it into the deepest recesses of her mind until it almost faded away, only rearing up a bit when she was careless and let her guard down. Her mother and grandmother went from protesting her actions, to worrying about them . . . to a kind of resigned acceptance, although their concerned glances did not escape her notice.

Her father died in a car accident when she was nineteen. She didn't go to the funeral. Her mother did.

Emily went to college, then graduate school, studying human behavior, psychology, statistics-basically anything that helped her understand what it really took to find a successful relationship. She was convinced that a scientific method was the key-algorithms and formulas that could calculate compatibility and spit out one's perfect life partner based on real things like science and not fantasies like soul mates and true love.

Emily had tried, at first, to integrate her approach into the family business. It had been a notion doomed to failure, however, given her own opinions, and she'd finally struck out on her own, creating Perfect Match, an online dating site that had proven remarkably successful. Within two years, she had expanded into an office overlooking Seattle's Lake Union, and a year after that opened a satellite branch in San Francisco. While the business was still active online, it had been Emily's personal touch and ultimate discretion that had pushed it to the next level, especially among the rich and elite.

Of course, with all that time invested in building her business, she really had no time for a personal life of her own. Not that she minded. Emily was convinced there was plenty of time for her to find her compatible match. She had a plan, after all-The Plan-and she was barely thirty years old. She'd start searching for Mr. Right when she turned thirty-three, then marriage at thirty-five, and the first child before she turned forty.

Plenty of time. And she had science on her side.

Yet, despite the fact that she had a successful business, a happy life, and The Plan, her strained relationship with her family niggled at her. She would have been lying to deny it. So, as she stood on her mother's front porch on Sunday evening, she took a deep, steadying breath before pressing the doorbell. She could see her mother through the gla.s.s panel next to the door-as always, a bit like looking in a mirror. The Valentine women shared more than a name. Born with the same strawberry-blond hair and pale aqua-green eyes. Her mother's was darker, thanks to her hairdresser, but her grandma opted to let nature take its course, her own hair more white than red or blond.

The doork.n.o.b rattled, and Emily tensed. There was a time when she would have just walked in. That time, however, had pa.s.sed. Her mother's reproachful look when she answered the door told her she missed it as well.

"Hi, honey," she said as Emily leaned in to kiss her cheek. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you, too, Mom." Emily shrugged out of her coat, hanging it on an empty hook in the entryway as she inhaled deeply, the rich scent of garlic and simmering wine wrapping around her. "Mmm . . . Chicken Marsala?" Emily's stomach rumbled in antic.i.p.ation.

Eve smiled. "Of course, it's your favorite."

She followed the scent into the kitchen, smiling at the familiar image of her grandmother hovering over the stove.

Ellen looked up as she entered, and welcomed her with a hug and a gla.s.s of wine, waving off Em's offers to help. "Just sit down and relax," she said, eyeing her granddaughter carefully. "You look tired."

Emily raised an eyebrow. "Too much gray in my aura?"

"More like the dark circles under your eyes." She dished up a plate of chicken and added a slice of crusty bread before setting it before Emily. "You work too much. You need to have more fun."

"I have fun."

Emily's mother snorted.

"What?" Emily set down her wine gla.s.s, affronted. "I do. I have friends. I do fun . . . things."

"Like what?" Ellen perched on a stool across the counter with her own plate. "You're not seeing anyone."

"You don't know that." Emily sliced through her chicken, jutting her chin out stubbornly.

"Well, if you are, he's n.o.body special."

"He's n.o.body, period," Eve added, sitting down next to Ellen.

"There is no he!" Emily set down her knife and poured herself more wine. It looked like she was going to need it.

"Exactly my point," Eve said. "You need romance."

"She needs s.e.x," Ellen muttered.

"Grandma!"

"Don't 'Grandma' me. You know I'm right."

And so it continued through dinner, and dessert-a tiramisu that was to-die-for and almost made up for the fact Emily had to switch from wine to coffee so she could drive home. Of course, she knew despite their disagreements, that her mother and grandmother loved her deeply, and that they were only worried about her. To them, love was the be-all and end-all, and they simply couldn't understand why Emily didn't feel the same way.

When she finally left the house later that evening, Eve and Ellen Valentine watched from the front windows until her taillights disappeared around the corner.

"We need to do something," Eve said quietly.

"Yes. And soon. The girl is fading away before our eyes."

"That might be a bit melodramatic, but she definitely has a hole in her heart." Eve let the curtain fall over the window. "The saddest part is she doesn't even realize it."

Ellen shook her head as they walked back into the kitchen to finish off the wine. "You see who she needs, then?"

Eve sighed. "I see possibilities. The problem is how to open Emily up to them."

"There's only one way, you know." Ellen set her wine down and went over to the kitchen desk to open her laptop. "We'll have to be sneaky."

Eve pulled over a chair to sit down next to her mother as she started up the computer. "She won't be happy with us for interfering."

Ellen shrugged. "Maybe not at first. She'll come around."

"I hope we're doing the right thing."

Ellen looked at her daughter, a soft smile on her face as she touched her cheek. "It's the only thing." She turned back to the computer, and the two women got to work.

"Are you sure about this? A c.o.c.ktail party?" Jessica slipped out of her coat, patting her hair nervously as Emily led her through the hotel lobby to the lounge.

"Just a small one," she a.s.sured her. "I've narrowed down the list of potential matches to about a dozen, but it's important for you to make the final choice."

"I don't know," Jessica hedged, toying with her earring. "I thought that was your job. That's why I came to you."

"I know and I won't leave you stranded." Emily held the door open, and the two walked through the bar toward a private room in the back. "I will give you my input as to who I see as your best options, but only you can decide if the attraction is there-the chemistry."

"All right . . . if you're sure." Jessica still didn't sound convinced.

"Trust me."

They pa.s.sed through another door into the private room, elegantly decorated with comfortable leather chairs, rich carpeting, and soft lighting from wall sconces and candles on the tables. The men were gathered in front of the gleaming bar, chatting quietly, the clink of ice on gla.s.s accenting their low murmurs.

Jessica faltered, and Emily reached for her, careful to place her comforting hand on her sleeve, and not bare skin.

"You'll be fine," she whispered before turning to the crowd.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Thank you for coming." Emily launched into her usual spiel, introducing Jessica and encouraging them to mingle, but to mind their manners and not monopolize her time.

She paced a few steps to the left, then the right, meeting the gaze of each man as she spoke. "It's imperative that Jessica has time to speak with everyone."

The crowd parted, and she saw the shape of a man leaning against the far wall. Curious, she craned her neck, but he stood in the shadows and she couldn't make out his features. She mentally ran through her list of prospective matches, ticking them off as she placed them in the group.

"Emily?"

Jessica's voice should have drawn her attention, but at that exact moment, the man stepped into the light and everything else faded into darkness. Emily's gift flared for a brief and powerful moment, and suddenly, like a lock sliding into place, she felt the connection.

With trembling hands, Emily pressed her fingers to her cheeks and closed her eyes, focusing her thoughts and blocking her gift once again. It faded back, angry at being ignored, and she drew a deep breath before opening her eyes to find Jessica watching her, brows creased in worry.

"Are you all right?" she asked in a hushed voice.

Emily nodded curtly, gathering her wits about her enough to force a smile. "Have a wonderful time everyone!" she called out, giving Jessica a gentle nudge toward the men as she withdrew to a dark corner table, grabbing a bottle of water on the way.

Heather burst through the door, curls wild around her face as she scanned the room. She crossed to Emily, skirting the circle of men surrounding Jessica.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, sliding into the booth. "My car wouldn't start."

"Don't worry about it." Emily noticed the man hovering around the edge of the circle, sipping his drink and observing the goings-on with an amused smile on his face. Now that she could see him clearly, she recognized him from his file.

Sam Cavanaugh.

Age: 32.

Professional cake designer who likes reading, camping, and rock climbing.

He'd been the last addition to the list of potential mates and seemed an odd match for Jessica on paper, but the algorithm had pegged him as high on the compatibility scale. Emily had run him through the system three times, and he kept making the cut, so in the end she'd had Heather invite him to the mixer.

"Seems to be going well," Heather said, as Jessica's laugh tinkled through the room. "Looks like everyone's having a good time."

"Mmhm." Emily watched Cavanaugh carefully, observing him to see why he had pegged her match-o-meter like that. It was obvious he was Jessica's ideal match, as far as her gift was concerned, but she didn't like the fact that it had spurted out of her control like that. She'd thought she had a better handle on it. Perhaps she'd just been distracted, not as focused as she usually- "Em? Are you even listening to me?" Heather waved a hand in front of her face. "What are you looking at?" She followed Emily's gaze before she could tear it away from Sam Cavanaugh and eyed her curiously.

"Nice specimen."

Emily blinked, taking a sudden interest in her water. "I'm sorry?"

"Sam Cavanaugh, isn't it?" she asked, fighting a smile. "He's an . . . attractive man."

Emily shrugged. "I suppose. I was just wondering why he scored so high on the compatibility scale, actually. Looking through his file, it really doesn't seem they have much in common."