Stephanie Doyle
Suspect Lover
© 2009
Dear Reader,
This book was inspired by an advertisement I read in one of those fancy magazines you find on an airplane. You know the kind-they sell foot massagers and battery-operated wine openers. This particular ad was for an exclusive matchmaking service that I seriously considered using. When I called the number listed I was told that the initial fee was $10,000. I figured I would try to find Mr. Right for free first.
Well, my search is still on, but this story is for everyone who has had success on the Internet or through dating services. If you believe the commercials on television, it really can work. Just as it did for my hero and heroine, Dominic and Caroline…after a few bumps in the road, that is.
I love to hear from readers. Come visit me at my Web site, www.stephaniedoyle.net.
Happy reading!
To Eric and Brian.
Here’s another book for you.
Love, the Book Lady
Chapter 1
“We’re here, ma’am.”
Caroline tore her gaze away from the structure on the hill. Realizing that the limo had stopped, she smiled politely at the driver in the rearview mirror.
“Different, isn’t it?” he said pointing with his chin in the direction of the architectural nightmare that was her destination. The stone slab building jutted out from the cliff like a bad sandcastle that had been pounded by too many waves.
It could be her next home. Possibly. Maybe. Wow. It was ugly.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she admitted.
The driver chuckled and shifted his weight to exit the car. A second later, her door was opened and a helpful hand waited for her.
“Can’t say it’s the boss’s style, either,” he noted. “He’s more the downtown condo type if you know what I mean. But he likes his privacy.”
Caroline imagined he must. She looked around and saw only the ocean to her right and to the left the stone structure precariously perched on the cliff.
“What am I doing here?” she mumbled to herself as she struggled against the very logical urge to get back in the car, return to the airport and fly home.
Dear Ms. Somerville,
I received your profile from the service we’ve both chosen to utilize. I believe we might be compatible.
I understand you are a writer. That sounds like a very interesting profession. What would you like to know about me?
Sincerely,
Dominic Santos
“Excuse me, ma’am did you say something?”
Caroline snapped back to attention to find the driver dripping in luggage. She offered to take one of the bags but he smiled and headed for the house. She followed him to what she supposed was the front door. Only it didn’t look like any door she’d ever seen as the stone slab portal was skewed to the right. The driver rang the doorbell.
She wasn’t ready to do this. She wasn’t ready to meet this man right here, right now. Everything she’d hoped for, dreamed of and wanted was potentially beyond that door. Her breath caught in her chest. She might faint.
At his feet.
That would make a heck of a first impression.
The door opened and a young woman with short spiky hair wearing a top that didn’t quite cover her stomach and a skirt that didn’t quite cover her thighs greeted them both. “Hi! You must be Caroline. Mr. S. told me to let you in.”
A large black dog muscled past the girl to greet the new guests. Caroline instantly offered her hand for the dog to sniff, which it did before licking it affectionately.
“Oh, sorry,” the girl apologized. “Don’t mind her. She doesn’t bite or anything. Her name is…”
“Munch,” Caroline finished. “Her name is Munch.”
Dear Mr. Santos,
I received your profile. It was quite detailed. But I imagine that’s part of the sizeable fee we’re paying. This isn’t like any other matchmaking service, is it? Annual gross income, detailed personality profiles, education history. One might think we were applying for a job with the CIA rather than just looking for someone. You asked what I wanted to know about you. So many things, I suppose. What you like. What you don’t like. Your hobbies, your passions. Why you chose to go this route to find a wife.
As for me, you were right in saying I’m a writer, but I have to confess it’s not as exciting as most people believe. I spend a lot of time on my own. I had a cat, but he recently passed away. I’m thinking of getting a kitten. They are great company.
Regards,
Caroline
“Come on in. Mr. S. said to show you around the place.”
“He’s not here?” Caroline tried to decide whether she was disappointed or relieved.
“Gosh no, Mr. S. is like never here. I take care of Munch during the day. I walk her a few times and sometimes I even have to come back in the evening if Mr. S. is pulling an all-nighter. This is the foyer, obviously. Off to the right is the kitchen. It’s totally tricked out with the best appliances.”
Caroline nodded and reached down to find Munch pressed up against her leg. She rubbed the animal’s short silky fur and thought how sad it was that such an affectionate creature was so often left alone by her master.
“Down those steps to the left is the living room. There is a really cool flat-screen over the fake fireplace. Then from there down another few steps is the pool house. Wait until you see that. It’s wicked.”
Tuning out her tour guide, Caroline tried to study her surroundings. A house could say so much about the person. Hers certainly did. Every stick of furniture she’d chosen. Every picture she’d hung. Antique pieces mixed with modern. The local artist she discovered at a small gallery opening in D.C. There was her mother’s milk pitcher collection. Her aunt’s dolls. Those she held on to, too. But they were still part of her.
There weren’t many pictures on Dominic’s wall. Two modern-art blasts of color that were probably recommended by a decorator. The few items of furniture were quality, but the space still seemed empty. The outside was a study in cutting-edge architectural design with rounded stone levels that resembled a weathered staircase. The inside reflected none of that radical theme.
