Mail-Order Matty. Emilie Richards

was hit with such a wave of self-disgust that for a moment nothing else mattered. Then, as he leaned over to pick up the bouquet of pink and white carnations he had bought at an airport gift shop, he heard his name over the intercom.

      “Would Mr. Damon Quinn please come to the airport information booth in front of…”

      He listened intently to the entire message and wondered how many times it had been repeated before he had registered the words.

      And what would he find when he arrived at the booth to get his message? That Matty had been seized with an attack of good sense and skipped the flight altogether? That something was wrong with Heidi back on Inspiration Cay and no one there knew what to do about it? That Gretchen’s parents had arrived on the island, warrant in hand, to take his daughter to a new home in Ohio?

      All disasters. All possible. For a moment he couldn’t move; then, clutching the flowers in an iron grip, he went to find out which calamity had struck.

      * * *

      Matty tugged at her gold sweater and wished it were a few inches longer to completely hide her hips and rump. Liza had bought it as a going away gift, along with the black leggings, the butter-soft ankle boots and the long gold chain that hung between her breasts. Her suitcases were stuffed with clothes from her other friends, too. The Carrollton female staff had given her a shower unlike any she’d ever witnessed. Liza and Felicity had orchestrated it, first shepherding Matty to a salon to have her colors done, then to have her hair cut and streaked with subtle warm highlights. The shower had come one week later, and all the clothes had mysteriously matched the new colors she was supposed to wear. Soft golds and delicate greens, rust and camel, and a turquoise the color of the ocean that would surround her new home.

      When she looked in the mirror now, the Matty peering back at her was altered. Short wisps of hair framed her face and tapered to her shoulders. Long light bangs brushed her eyebrows and emphasized the wide set of her eyes. The effect was pleasant and gave her a surge of confidence when she caught sight of herself. But she was still essentially the same, still the same plain Matty Stewart who was about to sell herself for the promise of adventure and warmth, and the presence of people in her life who might one day come to care about her.

      “Miss Stewart?”

      She turned to give the young man behind the information booth a wide smile. “He doesn’t seem to be coming, does he?”

      “Would you like me to try again?”

      “That would be terrific.”

      She watched him lift the microphone and start his announcement again. She guessed he was no older than twenty-one, dark and tanned, with a salad bowl haircut she recognized from teenagers on the Carrollton pediatrics ward. Six other people had demanded his attention since she had asked for his help, but the young man still hadn’t forgotten her.

      She was always surprised when she heard complaints about how rude people were to each other. True, she had run across difficult people at the hospital, but most of the time they were in pain or immersed in the worst throes of grief. She was drawn to people like that, the healer to the sufferer, and she discounted their rudeness as temporary and in some perverse way therapeutic. But in her experience most people were kind and helpful, willing to go the extra mile on the flimsiest evidence. Despite her work, despite some of the horrors the hospital had dealt with, she had never lost faith in her fellow human beings.

      Which might explain why she was willing to marry a man she hadn’t seen in nearly a decade, a man who had probably never even seen her at all, not even when they had stood face-to-face.

      “Matty?”

      She had been gazing into the throngs hurrying toward gates or ticket counters, so the deep voice behind her left shoulder was a surprise. But she didn’t spin around. She took a deep breath, then another for good measure, before she turned.

      For the first time in eight years she was face-to-face with Damon Quinn. And this time he couldn’t fail to see her.

      “Damon.” She created a smile from the turmoil within her. “I wondered if we’d ever find each other.”

      “I saw you get off the plane, but…” His voice trailed off.

      She didn’t want to finish his sentence, but she did. “You didn’t recognize me. I’m not really surprised. There’s no reason why you should have.”

      But she recognized him, both with her eyes and the distinctive fluttering inside her that had characterized every glimpse she’d ever had of him.

      “You don’t look like your photograph.”

      “The hair’s different. I know.” As she spoke, she did not have the self-control to resist examining him. Damon was older, but every bit as beautiful as she remembered. And beautiful was the right word, not because he was in the least bit feminine, but because handsome failed to drive right to the heart of the matter. He had the face of an angel, or at least a tormented poet, wide cheekbones, a rock-solid jaw and dark eyes that burned like smoldering coals, even when he was at his most casual. His black hair was too long, and it curled over his forehead, his nape and ears in a style that more than suited him. It defined him somehow, his perpetual distraction, his flouting of convention, his disdain for the inconsequential.

      “More than your hair is different,” he said after he had studied her, too. “You’ve grown up.”

      “Then you remember me?”

      He smiled a little. “What’s it to be, Matty? Bare-bones truth? Or something a little gentler?”

      “I’m totally incapable of telling a lie. And eight years ago you never took the time to try.”

      Some internal scorecard seemed to register a point in her favor. “I remember you, but vaguely. And only now that you’re here.”

      She was pleased somehow. She hadn’t expected that much. “I did grow up, but I haven’t changed a lot. Carrollton’s pretty much the same as it was when you left, and I’m afraid I am, too.”

      “A woman who was too afraid of change wouldn’t find herself in this situation.”

      She laughed lightly. “A woman who knew how to hold a few glasses of champagne wouldn’t have, either.”

      His smile broadened, a flash of emotional lightning that transformed him into someone more approachable. “Right, the champagne. Soon to become my favorite drink, since it’s brought you here.”

      Before she could respond, he took her elbow, as if to guide her through the crowd. “Did you get your luggage? You wouldn’t have had time for that, would you?”

      She had been fine—Or nearly fine—until that moment, coasting along on excitement and curiosity. But now she was blindsided by an attack of nerves. “Damon, we’re…uh…not heading right out, are we? I mean the plane—”

      “No. I had the good sense to book the last flight of the afternoon to George Town. We can’t take this any way that approaches normal, but I thought we could at least spend the afternoon getting to know each other before we go off to get married.”

      “But we can’t get married right away. There’s the license.”

      “That’s all a formality, but you’re right. You’ll still have a few days to decide once we’re there.”

      “And so will you.”

      He looked down at her from his six feet of solid masculinity. “I’m not going to change my mind. I know everything I need to know about you.”

      His words weren’t surprising. She knew he had checked her background with a thoroughness usually reserved for top-level security clearances. And she knew why.

      As Damon silently guided her through the crowds and toward baggage claim, she thought about everything that had transpired since she had awakened in horror on the morning after her birthday party to find that the letter Liza had penned