Читать книгу Wickedly Hot - Leslie Kelly - Страница 7

LYNNETTE GRAYSON HAD finally found the perfect woman for her grandson Ryan and she was utterly determined to bring them together. Whether he liked it or not.

“Brunette, his favorite,” she murmured as she went over her checklist. “Intelligent, without question. Tall and slim, somewhat mysterious.” And, most of all, interesting.

Ryan was altogether too comfortable, too spoiled, too at ease in his Manhattan apartment with his equally bored friends. He lived for his job with a high-stakes architecture firm, dated far too many women and cared for none of them.

He needed someone to challenge him. “Someone to spice him up a bit,” Lynnette said, remembering the horridly cold creature Ryan had brought to dinner the last time his grandparents had come into the city.

Her grandson wasn’t cold. That big, cold city might have made him forget he came from exciting, passionate, fascinating people who loved quickly and loved forever. Herself included, she had to admit with a smile. She’d led her husband, Edward, on a merry chase before marrying him, but she’d known he was the one from the first time he’d held her hand.

“Women nowadays,” she said aloud with a disgusted sigh. “No mystery. No subtlety. No uniqueness.”

Except for her. Jade Maguire, the young woman from Savannah she’d met just last week.

Jade was exactly what Ryan needed. The perfect woman at the perfect moment. Ryan was thirty years old. It was high time for him to settle down, create a family. Her other grandchildren were all happily settled, having followed family tradition by falling madly in love with the right person as soon as they’d met them. She wouldn’t rest until the same thing happened to Ryan—the oldest and, though she’d never admit it aloud, her favorite.

Unfortunately, she had the feeling he would be a little stubborn about this.

She’d tried matchmaking before with, er, unfortunate results. This wasn’t the same. She wasn’t inviting him up for a weekend when she’d coincidentally invited a young woman she’d met at the bank. Nor was it like the time she’d hosted a dinner party, with Ryan and the granddaughter of a friend the only unattached people there. This wasn’t like the florist, or the schoolteacher, or that nice young girl who sold houses for a living. None of whom Ryan had found the least bit interesting, much less fallen madly in love with in record time.

No, this time she’d chosen wisely. Perfectly, as a matter of fact. An art lover, a historian, a fascinating young woman who’d built a business all on her own. Even her business was exciting, unique and mysterious, like its owner.

Jade Maguire ran one of those wonderfully spooky walking tour companies in the old Southern city of Savannah. Lynnette had never taken such a tour, but the adventurous part of her told her she’d probably love being scared out of her wits while standing on a darkened street late at night. Jade had told them a few fascinating, ghostly tales when she’d come to see Lynnette about the painting that used to hang above the fireplace.

“Imagine,” Lynnette murmured aloud, looking at the now-empty wall where the beautiful portrait of a young woman had hung. “We had stolen property.”

Lynnette’s great-great-grandfather had stolen the portrait from a plantation during the Civil War. Jade had produced positive proof—letters, a copy of a social column from an ancient newspaper, even a copy of the wrinkled, yellowed, hand-written bill of sale from the artist.

Jade had asked Lynnette and her husband to consider donating the painting to the Savannah Historical Society, either now or in the future. Lynnette had immediately agreed, not only because it was the right thing to do but also because she was already trying to figure out a way to get her grandson Ryan to go visit the painting in Savannah.

Not likely. He’d certainly never do it because she asked him to. He’d know something was up and would suspect a romantic fix-up.

So she had to be careful. Tricky. Never ever let Ryan know she was trying to bring him together with Jade Maguire.

“How?” she whispered, still staring at the empty place on the wall. And suddenly, as with most of her really good ideas, it simply popped into her head

She was smiling as she reached for the phone. Smiling as she dialed and listened to the ring. But when Ryan answered, she quickly mustered up a quivery, weak, old-lady voice and some tears. He wouldn’t be taken in by much. Her grandson had always, however, had a soft spot for a woman who cried.

“Ryan?”

“Grandmother, what’s wrong?”

“I need you,” she said. “You see, I’m afraid I’ve been swindled.” Crossing her fingers behind her back and sending up a promise to say an extra Act of Contrition the next time she went to mass, she proceeded directly to the biggest whopper of her life. “A dreadful con woman has stolen the painting my father left me.”