as dark and wavy as a gypsy’s and an interesting little mole that transformed one eyebrow into a sideways semicolon. The wild mane and sexy mole, however, seemed at odds with the rest of the package. The large eyes that dominated her face were as blue as a summer sky and unmistakably sad. The delicate skin below them looked slightly shadowed, as if she hadn’t slept well the night before. Beneath her conservative long-sleeved blouse and tailored navy slacks, her curves were more lean than lush. He pegged her to be in her mid-twenties, about five-five, and maybe one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. Fragile. That was the word that came to mind. Her skin was as fair and freckleless as his was tanned. Clearly, she didn’t spend much time outdoors, despite the miles of beaches and hiking trails that enticed summer vacationers to the northern Michigan town of Traverse City from near and far. Cam thought he could pity her for that alone.
But pity wasn’t why he had come.
“I’d like a word with you.”
He watched surprise recede behind a mask of polite, if cool, professionalism, and for some reason he found himself wondering if those full lips of hers remembered how to smile. Yet there was a ghost of humor in her words when she replied, “You look like a man who has more than one word on his mind.”
The receptionist huffed into the room then, shooting Cam a nasty look and cracking her gum for good measure.
“Sorry, Miss Daniels. I told this guy he needed an appointment, but he wouldn’t listen. He just walked right past me.”
“That’s all right, Lisa.” She sent the young woman a reassuring wink that caused the mole to dip briefly. “I’ve got nothing pressing at the moment.” Glancing in his direction, she asked, “Can I offer you some coffee, Mr....ah, I don’t believe I know your name.”
“Foley, Cameron Foley,” he answered. Her voice was slow and smoky and made him think of the South. Wherever she hailed from originally, it wasn’t the Great Lakes state. “And I’ll pass on the coffee.”
“Very well. Hold my calls, please,” she told Lisa, dismissing her. The receptionist sent Cam one last squinty-eyed glare before closing the door on her way out.
Madison Daniels walked to the high-backed chair behind her desk, her movements stiff, awkward. She sank slowly onto the upholstered seat and folded her hands on the leather blotter. For the first time, Cam noticed the raised scars that ran along the back of her right hand and disappeared beneath the cuff of the long-sleeved blouse. He realized he must have been staring when she discreetly lowered her hands to her lap, away from his prying view.
“Are you interested in signing up for our services, Mr. Foley? We haven’t been in business long, but True Love, Incorporated has enjoyed quite a bit of success so far.” She plucked a square of ivory vellum from the desk blotter. “In fact, I’ve just been invited to a wedding.”
The woman’s fragility momentarily had taken the edge off his anger, but it throbbed back to life now and made him lash out.
“I’m here because of this.” He tossed the wadded letter onto her desktop and folded his arms over his chest. “I want to know what gives you the right to mail out solicitations like this one.”
She smoothed the wrinkles from the paper, eyebrows tugging together as she read it. Then she glanced up.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Foley. This is a simple promotion. Hundreds of other businesses use such mailings. It’s all on the up and up, I assure you. We get the names, addresses and marital status from the Secretary of State’s office in Lansing. The people who are interested can respond. Those who aren’t can toss it in the garbage.”
“No harm, no foul,” he scoffed. “Did it ever occur to you that not everyone is single by choice?”
She eyed him warily but nodded in agreement. “That’s precisely why we’re in business, to help people who don’t want to be single find someone to spend time with—perhaps even a lifetime.”
Cam snorted, irritated anew by her calm demeanor and the slightly sanctimonious edge to her tone.
“Lady, don’t pretend your motives are so pure. You’re not as interested in helping lonely people find one another as you are in drawing a paycheck.”
She shrugged off the barb, although he thought he saw temper spark briefly in the otherwise calm blue of her eyes.
“Are you lonely, Mr. Foley?”
The way she said it, she reminded Cam of the therapist he’d seen briefly a few summers earlier just after his wife died. He glanced down at the ring on his left hand, the feel of it comforting and familiar. Safe. Just that morning he’d taken it off and tucked it away in the back of his bureau drawer. It was the first time the ring had left his finger in ten years. Everyone kept telling him it was time to move on with his life. They all offered the pathetically clichéd reason that it was what Angela would have wanted—for him and for the daughter they’d made together. It didn’t matter that it was true, and that before her death Angela had made him promise to keep his heart open to love and the possibility of remarriage.
Even Angela’s own sister, whose grief came the closest to matching his own, was urging him to start dating again. For the past few weeks, he’d actually begun to consider it. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was time to dip his toe in the water again, enjoy some adult company. There were times when he felt so lonely. But then the mail had come that morning, and with it True Love, Incorporated’s galling solicitation. How dare they call him single? His hand, wedding ring securely back in place, curled into a fist as outrage returned, fueled by something he refused to admit might be guilt.
“I’m not lonely,” he replied between gritted teeth, even though he knew it was a lie.
“But you are single, correct?” She waved a hand toward the solicitation on her desk.
He didn’t answer. To say yes seemed a betrayal of Angela, and yet no wasn’t quite accurate, either. She apparently took his silence for an affirmation.
“Well, if you’re single, I fail to see what the problem is. If you’re not interested in our services, fine. Throw the solicitation away. But True Love, Incorporated is doing nothing wrong—morally or legally—by seeking your business. You, Mr. Foley, are the single man living at 4255 Mockingbird Lane to whom this correspondence is addressed.”
“No, Miss Daniels, I’m not.” He laid the palms of his hands on the highly polished wood of her desktop and leaned forward, pinning her with an icy glare that he was gratified to see had her shifting back in her seat.
“What I am is the widowed man living at 4255 Mockingbird Lane who watched his wife die a slow and agonizing death from cancer. What I am, Miss Daniels, is a man who wants to be left the hell alone by people like you who have the audacity to try to put a price tag on something that’s beyond monetary value.
“True Love, Incorporated.” He sneered. “You ought to be arrested for fraud. You don’t know the first thing about true love. If you did, you’d realize it can’t be packaged and sold like cereal in some grocery store.”
Her face bleached of what little color it had. In a shaky whisper, she replied, “I’m so sorry. H-how long ago did you lose your wife?”
He backed up a step, crossed his arms again. “It was three years in May.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It’s an eternity.”
“Have...have you dated at all since then?”
He glared at her and said with a certainty he did not feel, “I have no reason to date. There’s no one I’d be interested in meeting.”
“How can you be so sure?”
How? He twirled the band that encircled the third finger with the thumb of his left hand. The gesture was comforting, familiar, affirming.
“I’ve already had my ‘true love,’ Miss Daniels. There’s not another one out