Marrying the Matchmaker (A Shanahan Match #4)

Chapter 1

St. Louis, Missouri

She’d done it. She’d finally sold a story.

Trying to remain as composed as possible, Zaira Shanahan stepped out onto Seventh Street and closed the door of the newspaper office behind her. She only managed two strides before she clasped her hands together and released a squeal of delight.

Her dreams were coming true. She was an official author.

Well, her pseudonym, K. S. Flanders, was the author . . . which didn’t bother Zaira too much. The fake name was just a technicality. All that mattered was that she was being published.

Thankfully, Mr. Knapp hadn’t pressed her to reveal more about who K.

S. Flanders really was and had accepted that the fellow was a friend who wished to remain anonymous.

If the newspaper owner had suspected Zaira was K.

S. Flanders, he hadn’t said anything when he’d offered her a weekly column.

Maybe he’d decided people would be more willing to read episodes from an unknown man than from a nineteen-year-old woman, especially the daughter of one of St. Louis’s most prominent families.

Whatever the case, Zaira wasn’t complaining.

“A weekly column.” She couldn’t keep a wide smile from blossoming. “Just think, by Sunday all of St. Louis and beyond will be reading my story.”

Oh, sweet saints. Her stomach flipped like a steamboat paddle wheel.

She had four days to write and deliver the next installment.

Sure, she could use some of what she’d already written.

Mr. Knapp had mostly liked it. But he’d given her a short list of edits to pass along to K.

S. Flanders—edits that included adding more intrigue to leave readers anticipating the next segment.

He’d also requested that the feelings between the heroine and her love interest be more realistic and contain more depth.

He’d agreed to publish two chapters. After that, he would gauge the public’s response before approving more.

It went without saying that if the story wasn’t well received, K.

S. Flanders would have a short publishing career.

But if the two segments got good reviews, then she’d be able to keep on publishing in the weekly column.

She took several more rapid steps away from the Daily Republican office—which was housed in a temporary building since the old one had been destroyed in the fire that had ravaged St. Louis only a few months ago in May.

As she caught her reflection in the window of the law office next door, she halted again and admired the young woman she was becoming.

She, the middle Shanahan child, who often got lost in the crowd of her five siblings, was growing up and doing something with her life, something she loved, something that gave her purpose.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

The fashionable straw bonnet with the wide brim framed her distinct, Shanahan heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a dimple on her chin.

Even though she’d done her best to tame her long, curly red hair into a chignon, the humidity of the hot July day had teased some shorter strands into escaping, so she looked less elegant than she’d hoped.

The summery green of the ribbon on her hat was the same shade of velvet trimming her gown, a romantic color that matched her eyes and also made her skin and hair come to life. Not only that, but the gown was flattering to her figure and made her appear older and more womanly.

She released a happy sigh, gave her petite frame a nod of approval, then turned away from her reflection. As she did so, she collided with a man hurrying down the boardwalk from the opposite direction.

“I beg your pardon.” The fellow reached out to steady her. As his hand circled her forearm, he froze.

She shifted and found herself facing Bellamy McKenna, the Irish matchmaker. His easy smile disappeared and was replaced by a scowl, and his dark brown eyes narrowed beneath his tweed flatcap.

It didn’t matter one iota that Bellamy was peering at her as though he’d just had a run-in with a dirty rat. With his dark hair, tanned skin, and chiseled features, he was still the most gorgeous man in St. Louis, and nothing could mar his utter beauty, not even his obvious irritation.

As her sister had always said, Bellamy was a heart-stopper and looked more Italian than Irish.

While that was an accurate description, Zaira likened Bellamy to a Celtic warrior from the old myths.

He was strong and full of valor and unwilling to back down from a challenge.

At the same time, he was charming and witty and savvy with a bit of enigma, a puzzle that needed solving.

Every single Irishwoman in St. Louis wanted to be the one to solve Bellamy . . . including Zaira. There was no sense in denying it. Doing so would be like denying that the stars came out at night.

The trouble was that Bellamy was not attracted to her. Not even a tiny bit. In fact, he seemed to dislike her more every time he saw her.

She had a feeling his contempt was because she knew about his little—or perhaps not-so-little—secret. And he wasn’t keen on her bringing it up once in a while.

Regardless, she enjoyed teasing him and didn’t intend to stop. It made life more interesting, and she was all about making life interesting, since more drama meant more fodder for her stories.

“Well, well, well.” She gave him another once-over. Usually, he wore black trousers with a white dress shirt and black vest. But today he had on a matching suit coat that lent him the air of a gentleman. “If it isn’t Mr. W. B. M. himself.”

Bellamy glanced quickly around the nearly deserted street. For midday, the quiet was eerie without the usual carts and drays and wagons rumbling by. Only a handful of men loitered in front of a barbershop a few buildings away, talking together in hushed tones as if they were at a funeral.

Maybe they were. The city seemed to be dying more every day that the cholera epidemic lingered.

The death toll last week had risen to over seven hundred people.

And if her parents knew she’d ventured downtown into the danger, they’d lock her in her room at their country home, Oakland, and never let her out.

Bellamy’s eyes turned almost black as his gaze returned to her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Afraid I’ll tell everyone your secret?”

“You should be afraid I’ll be telling everyone yours.” His voice was low.

Whenever she talked with Bellamy, her blood hummed with an energy she loved. “What exactly do you think my secret is?”

“You know that I know.”

She wasn’t sure if he really knew about her publishing efforts or if he was bluffing. Either way, she suspected he wouldn’t say anything to her parents any more than she’d say something to Oscar.

She nodded at the canvas he was holding, hidden behind brown paper. “Which one do you have there? The field of wildflowers?”

That had been her favorite of the paintings she’d seen in his studio in the shed.

Bellamy’s eyes only narrowed on her all the more. “Go home and stay there.”

The first time she’d noticed him coming out of Templeton & Evans Gallery back in the spring, she’d been surprised to say the least. She hadn’t expected a man like Bellamy to be interested in art.

But he’d most definitely been carrying a canvas, although it had been covered and she hadn’t been able to see what it entailed.

Secretly, she’d followed him to the shed behind Oscar’s Pub, where he’d stowed the canvas away.

When he’d gone into the pub, she’d snuck into the shed and investigated long enough to discover not just that canvas but others—incredibly beautiful paintings of landscapes around St. Louis.

Each of them had the initials W. B. M. in the corner.

All she’d needed to do was return to Templeton & Evans to find several more of those paintings with the same initials. They’d been for sale, and the price tags on them hadn’t been cheap.

A few weeks later when she’d been trying to sell another one of her stories, she’d seen Bellamy coming out of a different art gallery, and her curiosity had gotten the best of her. She’d gone right up to him and asked him if he was an artist with the name W. B. M.

Instead of staying calm and unruffled like he usually did, he’d been flustered and defensive. His reaction had given her the answer she’d been looking for—that Bellamy McKenna was a very talented artist.

“You need to nip along, Zaira,” Bellamy said. “The city isn’t safe.”

“Aw-w-w.” Zaira cocked her head and gave him what she hoped was her most flirtatious look. “It’s so nice to know you care about me, Bellamy. I feel so special.”

He scoffed, his eyes now flashing with danger—a danger that invaded her and marched into her veins.

Similar to previous interactions with Bellamy, she didn’t understand the emotions he brought to life in her, but she liked the excitement and thrill of their nearness and their conversations.

“Don’t be daft.” He leaned in farther, his face only inches from hers, his gaze riveted to her mouth. “You know you’re just a little lass playing grown-up.”

Something in the way he was studying her mouth sent a sizzle through her, one that scorched her insides and made her inhale sharply.

At the quick rise of her chest, Bellamy’s attention dropped to her bust. The style of her summer gown was cut low, leaving the swell of her chest showing above the lacy edge of her bodice.

His gaze seemed to reach out and caress her skin, and she drew in another breath, this one more pronounced than the last.

Was this what desire truly felt like?

She’d tried to write about it realistically.

But maybe it was impossible to portray something she’d never experienced firsthand.

Did she need to facilitate a relationship with someone like Bellamy so she could experience more depth of emotion the way Mr. Knapp had suggested?

Maybe she could have her first kiss? For research purposes?

She wouldn’t mind making Bellamy her subject. Her thoughts spun with all the possibilities even as her gaze snagged on Bellamy’s mouth. With such a handsome mouth—one with a ready grin—he was probably a very good kisser.

“Stop, Zaira,” he growled.

“Stop what?”

“Stop flirting with me every time you see me.”

She took a rapid step back, his words like a splash of cold water against her overheated body. “I’m not flirting.”

“Oh aye. It’s easy to see that you like me.” His voice held too much swagger. “But nothing will ever happen between us.”

How was it that Bellamy could read people so well? Almost as if he could get into their minds—her mind—and see every single thought.

It was slightly mortifying. But thankfully she didn’t embarrass easily. Instead, she forced herself to smile brightly. “I didn’t expect anything to happen, Bellamy. But since you brought it up, maybe that’s what you’re hoping for.”

He released another scoff. “Ach, now I understand why there’s talk of your da coming to me soon to find you a match.”

She hadn’t heard that talk. But with Kiernan now happily married to Alannah, maybe her da was ready to start the matchmaking process for the next of his children. If so, she’d have to find a way to dissuade him and buy herself more time.

“You tell them I’m too young for a match.” Her smile faded. “I’d like to wait until I’m at least twenty-one.” Even if her mam had been younger than her—only eighteen—when she’d married Da, surely there was no hurry.

Bellamy shrugged and finally took a step away from her.

Without his presence overwhelming her, she allowed herself a full breath.

“It’s not my job to question when a person gets married.” Bellamy carefully adjusted the canvas he was carrying. “’Tis only my job to question who a person marries.”

She arched a brow. “Seems like you’re having a hard time with even that lately.”

He arched his brow back.

“The week of finding Deirdre Whitcomb a match is coming to a close.” She knew about Senator Whitcomb’s visit to Bellamy and the weeklong deadline for finding a match for his daughter.

Everyone in St. Louis and the surrounding countryside had heard about the challenge.

No one understood exactly why the match was so important.

Some speculation abounded that a much older politician wanted to marry Deirdre and Senator Whitcomb couldn’t turn the fellow down without ruining his political career.

Bellamy blew out a tense breath that told Zaira the young matchmaker hadn’t yet been able to find anyone Deirdre would accept.

With only one day left before the week’s end, Bellamy was likely to fail.

And if he failed in this important match, he would lose the confidence of the community—a confidence he’d just started to gain after the matches he’d formed for three of the Shanahan siblings.

In fact, if Bellamy was unsuccessful with the senator’s daughter, then Oscar wouldn’t let his son take over as the official matchmaker, at least not for a while.

“I’m friends with Deirdre,” she said.

“Is that a fact?”

“Oh aye.” Well, maybe friends was a stretch. But Zaira did have the same social circle as Deirdre and was familiar with the young woman since they’d grown up together.

“So now you think you’ll be telling me the kind of man Deirdre needs?” Bellamy’s lips quirked with the beginning of a smile—an arrogant one that said he didn’t believe Zaira had any information to offer.

“I can help you, Bellamy. But if you don’t think so, then go ahead and keep looking for a match. I’m sure you’ll figure it out since you’re so smart.”

“I will figure it out just fine, so I will.”

She shrugged and gave him her most innocent smile.

“Good luck.” She turned and began to walk away.

She could feel Bellamy’s gaze trailing her, the heat of it scorching her skin.

It wasn’t fair that one man could affect a woman so intensely.

Why couldn’t she have that effect on him? Instead, she only seemed to annoy him.

She made a point of walking as gracefully as possible for a few more steps before she turned, pressing her hand against her chest, to the spot where he’d been staring a few moments ago.

He was still watching her, and his attention shifted to where she was holding her hand, just as she’d intended. “If you change your mind and want the name of the love of Deirdre’s heart, you know where to find me.”

She didn’t wait for his response. Instead, she continued down the street.

Aye, she was going to use Bellamy McKenna for research whether he wanted it or not.