Книга - Captivated By The Tycoon

Captivated By The Tycoon
Anna DePalo


He was the most-sought-after male in town and he wanted Lauren Fletcher to find him a wife.Matchmaking was Lauren's business, but she'd never thought Matt Whittaker–gorgeous, rich and powerful–would need her type of help. Yet the tycoon insisted only Lauren could get him the woman he wanted.After spending several days–and nights–together, Lauren soon suspected that not just any woman was going to fulfill Matt's needs. Perhaps the only woman able to capture the tycoon's heart was the matchmaker herself!









Captivated by The Tycoon

Anna DePalo







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Nicholas




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Coming Next Month




One


He was the last man she wanted to see. The last man she expected to see in her reception room. Matthew Whittaker was heir to one of Boston’s great fortunes and witness to the most humiliating day of her life.

Lauren came to a halt inside the discreet office doors of Ideal Match. She was unaccustomedly late, thanks to a luncheon appointment that had run overtime and the snow flurries of the uncooperative January weather. Hurried and breathless, she fought to slow her breath as her eyes connected with his.

He was already unfurling himself from his position on the couch, and she steeled herself against his looming presence.

“Your two o’clock appointment is here.”

Her gaze cut across the reception room to Candace, who raised her eyebrows and opened her eyes wide, then back to the man who stood facing her.

Stalling for time to regain her composure, she slowly walked toward him. “Matt,” she acknowledged, relieved that her voice sounded close to normal. “This is a surprise.”

“Hello, Lauren,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

When she’d last seen him, he’d been wearing a black tuxedo with a boutonniere of stephanotis. The stephanotis had had fake pearls threaded through their centers, just as she’d requested. It had been her wedding, after all.

The look in his blue-velvet eyes on that day five years ago had been unsettling, but then she’d always found him disconcerting.

Her high-heeled pumps sounded on the wood floor before they hit the faux Oriental rug covering the center of the reception area. She kept a professional smile on her face as she reached him. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

As her outstretched hand was engulfed in his, she quelled the little flutter of sensation in her midriff.

“I thought it might be,” he said with a wry smile. After a beat, he added, “A surprise, that is.”

Looking up at him, she had a ringing reminder of her small stature. Even in heels, she qualified as petite—a fact she’d been ruing for all of her thirty years.

Young, short and female. A winning combination for being taken seriously by any yardstick.

He, on the other hand, had everything going for him. At least six feet, he was also wealthy, male and imposing. Hadn’t she read somewhere that the height of a candidate was a better predictor of who would win a Presidential election than almost any other factor?

She swept him a look from beneath her lashes. He had the dark good looks of a GQ model, but he was also—what was the word she was searching for?—enigmatic.

She recalled the recent Fortune magazine cover story about him. He’d been called the financial engineer of Whittaker Enterprises because of his cool, unflappable style as CFO of the aggressively competitive family conglomerate.

Ironically, the Boston Sentinel had also named him Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor for two years running. After his younger brother, Noah, had gotten married, Matt had succeeded to the title almost by default.

Still, surely he wasn’t here for her matchmaking services. Yet, what other explanation was there? He was her two o’clock.

As if on cue, he said, “I’ve got to be the last person you expected to see as a client.”

Please God, no. No, no, no. Not him. Not the man who’d remained perplexingly impassive in the face of her abject humiliation five years ago. Not the man who perversely made her acutely aware of her femininity.

Collecting herself, she nodded to Candace, then said smoothly, “Won’t you come in? We’ll be able to talk at length in my office about what you’re looking for and how we can help you find it.” She mentally winced—it wasn’t as if he was looking to be matched to a computer or some other emotionless object, much as she might think it appropriate. “I mean her.”

His eyes showed a flicker of an emotion suspiciously like amusement.

When he’d followed her into her office, she shut the door behind them, shooting a frown at her receptionist, who wore an openly curious expression.

Taking off her coat, she waved him to a seat. As she walked over to a cabinet set along one wall, she asked, “Tea? Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

She felt like a fortifying gulp of something strong and caffeinated herself. Instead, she reluctantly retraced her steps and sat down in an armchair at a right angle to his seat on the couch.

She watched as he glanced around her office, looking about as comfortable as a caged panther. She waited for him to get to the point.

Finally, his gaze came back to hers. “My sister and sisters-in-law think the world would be a better place if I were as happily married as they all are.”

She waited.

“My sister suggested hiring you.”

She moved forward in her seat. “I’m afraid I only take on clients who are sure—”

“I’ve decided she may be right.”

Oh. She inched back in her chair, then tried again. “Since you’ve been dubbed Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor, I don’t see why you’d need to hire a matchmaker. The title alone—”

“Heard about it, have you?” he asked sardonically.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I read the Sentinel, and anyway, it’s my business to know who the eligible singles are in this town.”

“That’s just it.” He raked his hand through his hair. “That ridiculous title makes me the target of every gold digger and social climber around. Being named Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor once was bad enough, but now that I’ve had the title two years running, it’s getting to be more than merely irritating. I’ve seen my brothers targeted by unscrupulous women, and I’ve got no desire to be part of a repeat performance.” He paused. “That’s where you come in.”

“It’s one thing to want to avoid unscrupulous women, it’s another to want to find a meaningful relationship.”

“I’m thirty-six. It’s time.”

“Time?”

He gave a curt nod. “I’ve spent the past decade putting in long hours in the boardroom, but I don’t want to be sixty by the time my kids hit Little League.”

He made it sound so methodical. So logical, she thought.

“Besides,” he went on, “I don’t have the time to take a scattershot approach. I’m counting on finding the right woman by the time the Sentinel gets around to naming its Most Eligible Bachelor again three months from now.”

He was seeking her out, Lauren thought, for the same reason a lot of her high-powered clients did. Neither he nor they had the time to take a casual approach to finding Mr. or Ms. Right. And with their type A personalities, they thought finding the right mate could be approached in the same way as they did everything else in their lives—throw some money at the problem and hire someone to do the legwork.

She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised a corporate mogul like Matt would think he could tackle finding a wife in the same way.

“Hiring a matchmaker isn’t a quick-fix solution,” she warned. “My clients sometimes forget they still need to commit time, effort and emotional energy to nourish a relationship.”

He nodded. “Understood. I’ll make the time, but I’ll rely on you to make it worth it.” After a pause, he added, “There’ll be excellent publicity for Ideal Match if you pair off Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”

He had a point there. Naturally, astute businessman that he was, he couldn’t resist pointing out the bottom-line benefits of taking him on as a client.

Parker, her ex-fiancé, had been the same way. Of course, since Matt and Parker had been buddies at Harvard Business School, it wasn’t surprising there were other similarities between them.

She, on the other hand, was a walking billboard for making business decisions with her heart and not her head. Fortunately, she’d chosen a field where that kind of thinking was rewarded. Still, she was probably the only matchmaker in the city of Boston who took on charity cases, thanks to her volunteer work at a senior citizens’ retirement community.

Yet, if she succeeded in pairing Matt off with Ms. Right, Ideal Match would be vaulted to a whole new level of visibility. It would be a major coup, in fact. So what if Matthew Whittaker was an ever-present reminder she was a phony whose fiancé had jilted her and whose personal experience of passion and love everlasting was nil?

She thought again about how much taking on Matt would help her business. Surely she could handle him. She’d held her own against difficult CEOs who were too busy to follow up on dates, pompous perfectionists who thought they were God’s gift to women, and even teary-eyed prima donnas who’d been planning their weddings in the womb.

She watched now as Matt looked around her office.

Ideal Match was located in one of downtown Boston’s sleek new office towers. Most of her clients were busy professionals who not only expected a certain image from her business, but ease of accessibility, as well.

But while the building was sleek and new, she’d tried hard to make Ideal Match’s offices comfy and inviting. The decorating scheme was dark woods dressed in maroons and browns and highlighted with creams and some gold.

“You’ve been doing well for yourself,” he said finally, his eyes coming back to hers. “When did you start Ideal Match?”

“Over four years ago. You’d be surprised at how much a flawless diamond engagement ring can fetch at a pawnshop.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Had he expected her to crawl into a hole five years ago and refuse to emerge? She had been tempted to run back to California and her family’s comforting embrace, but she’d resisted the urge.

He cocked his head and regarded her steadily. “No, I’m not surprised,” he murmured, before adding more distinctly, “I’m glad the past few years have been good for you.”

She limited herself to thanking him politely, because the last thing she wanted was to revisit that fateful day with him.

Hers was supposed to have been the perfect June wedding. Even the weather had cooperated. It had been sunny and warm. But aside from the weather, nothing had gone as planned.

Growing up, she’d always been afraid that if she threw a party, it would be a flop. Her wedding was supposed to have been the biggest party she’d ever hosted but instead it had been her worst nightmare.

Still, even when things had gone awry, nothing had followed a trite script. The groom hadn’t run off, leaving his best man to give the bride the bad news. Instead, Parker had come himself. And, she hadn’t fallen into a fit of tears. Instead, she’d squared her shoulders and gone on with the party.

She’d been adjusting her veil in her hotel suite when Parker had appeared, saying they needed to talk. The rest had played like a head-on collision in slow motion: she could see it coming, but she was powerless to do anything about it. He was calling off the wedding…things just didn’t feel right…he had some more living to do…sorry for hurting her.

She’d just stared at Parker, watching the words come out of his mouth but unable to react because of the paralyzing shock gripping her.

He hadn’t even had the decency to tell her his news the night before, at the rehearsal dinner, before nearly one hundred fifty wedding guests were packing the church, lining the aisle she was supposed to walk down in the next hour.

And then her eyes had slid to Matt, who’d appeared behind Parker. He’d been dressed in groomsman’s attire, but the look on his face had been stony and forbidding. If she’d been seeking a shoulder to cry on, his was obviously not available.

Ironically, his reaction had fortified her. An announcement had been made to the guests, and then with head held high, she’d gone on with the reception—this time as a salute to the wedding that wasn’t. The guests had admired her pluck, but only she knew how devastating it had been to take off for her honeymoon with her maid of honor instead of her husband.

And yet, she’d managed to turn adversity on its head. She’d left the matchmaking firm she’d been working for and started her own business. Although she had no desire for a repeat walk down the aisle herself, she believed she’d learned from hard experience how to gauge compatibility.

Pairing up happy couples had helped her heal. She could count multiple marriages among her success stories, and at each ceremony, she’d cried tears of happiness.

“It’s still painful for you,” Matt said, calling her back from her thoughts.

There wasn’t any need for him to elaborate. They both knew what he was talking about. Wanting to change the course of the conversation, she reached over to the coffee table in front of them for the folder Candace had left for her.

Somewhere along the way—and maybe it was just some immature need to prove to him she’d moved on with her life—she’d decided to take him on as a client.

Opening the folder, she said, “So, what are you looking for in a woman?”



You. The answer jumped unbidden into his head.

Where the hell had that thought come from?

Matt gave himself a mental shake. He hadn’t given much thought to putting into words what he was looking for in a woman.

Aloud he said, testing, “Down-to-earth.”

“Anything else?”

He thought for a moment. “Stylish.”

He noticed she wore a black V-neck top over a slim gray skirt and high-heeled black leather boots. Her jewelry was simple—just hoop earrings, a watch and a lariat necklace.

She looked over the questionnaire he’d filled out in the reception area, then glanced up, frowning. “You didn’t respond to all of the questions here.”

He gave an unapologetic shrug.

She tossed him a disapproving look before going back to the form in front of her.

As Lauren continued to look over his printed answers, Matt reflected on the restless feeling he’d been unable to shake off. He’d kept his nose to the grindstone for the past decade, building up his business ventures, both in his role as Chief Financial Officer of Whittaker Enterprises and for his own private investment.

These days, though, he felt like the odd man out at family gatherings with his siblings. Quentin had married interior designer Elizabeth Donovan and become father to a baby boy. Then Allison had married Connor Rafferty, Quentin’s old college buddy. And not too long after that, Noah had tied the knot with Kayla Jones, who’d been Ms. Rumor-Has-It for the Sentinel’s gossip page.

The more he’d thought about it, the more hiring a matchmaker made sense—particularly since, as long as the Sentinel continued to bestow its ridiculous title on him, every shrewd, fortune-hunting female in the greater Boston area would be pursuing him with a vengeance.

It couldn’t hurt to give Lauren’s service a shot for a few months. His time was valuable, and though he couldn’t change the past, Lauren’s business would get a boost if she could claim to have paired off Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor.

Just then Lauren looked up from reviewing the questionnaire, calling him back from his thoughts.

Pen poised over paper, she said briskly, “Let’s fill in the blanks.”

He almost smiled at her business-like tone.

“Do you have a preferred hair color?”

He looked at her hair. “I like brunettes.”

Her hair had a silky, smooth look to it and fell past her shoulders. He was glad she hadn’t cut it since he’d last seen her. It appeared even longer than he remembered it being.

“Age range?” she asked, looking up from jotting down his first answer.

“Someone in her thirties.” He tried to remember how old she’d been at the time of her wedding five years ago. Twenty-five?

She pinned him with a penetrating look. “Would you date someone who’s older than you are?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m an equal opportunity dater.”

His droll humor was met with more scribbling. “Eye color?”

Her eyes were the lovely blue-green of the sea. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her when Parker had introduced her to him as his fiancée five years ago. Aloud, he heard himself say, “Doesn’t matter, but I’m partial to green.”

“Height?”

He eyeballed her. Even though she was sitting down, he estimated she couldn’t be more than five foot five or six, even in heels. Tall enough for him, he figured. “Not too tall.”

She looked at him skeptically. “You’re over six feet. Are you sure you want to date petite women?”

Oh, yeah, he thought. And, kiss them, too, if their lips were anything like hers: full and beckoning.

He reined in his wayward thoughts. He wasn’t here to date Lauren, he was here to hire her. She was just a good model for what he might find attractive in a woman, considering he hadn’t given it much thought before showing up for this appointment. He knew what he didn’t want, and as for the rest, he’d know it when he saw her.

Aloud he said, “I’ve dated petite women in the past.” It was a bit of a stretch. “It’s not an issue for me.”

She arched an eyebrow.

He looked back at her blandly.

After a moment, she jotted down his answer and his others to her subsequent questions, then set her pad aside.

She crossed and then uncrossed her legs.

He waited.

She cleared her throat. “One of the things I’ve learned from running this business for the past four years is that, to make an ideal match, I often have to prepare my client to be an ideal match.”

He wondered where this conversation was heading.

“What I mean is,” she continued, apparently choosing her words with care, “sometimes people, no matter how successful in their professional lives, need a few pointers.”

“Cut to the chase.” In his business dealings, he was used to laying out what needed to be said, without hedging or apologies.

She shifted. “I’ve seen the occasional press about you. You’re described as cool, calculating and aloof.”

He was proud of those characteristics, he wanted to tell her. They kept his business adversaries off balance, just the way he liked them. Still, while he might be like that publicly, privately was a different matter—at least when he wasn’t around her. Five years ago, he’d had a frustrating inability to get beyond stiff conversation with her.

“Ideal Match can help,” she went on quickly. “Before turning you loose on a real date, we can work on the total package together.”

“The total package?” he prompted.

She nodded. “Creating your best you. Clothes, image, conversation skills…”

She waved her hand in the air as if further explanation was unnecessary.

Matt recalled that Allison had said Lauren was called Dr. Date. Now he knew why—besides the fact she’d had more than a few success stories with her services. “So you’re going to coach me?”

A fleeting look of discomfort crossed her face, then she said crisply, “Something like that.”

“Fine.” He was used to making fast decisions. It was the only way to survive when you swam with the corporate sharks. Besides, he could afford to pay her well for her services.

And then, of course, Ms. Matchmaker might discover there were a few lessons that he could teach her.




Two


Luxurious. The word flashed again through Lauren’s mind as she stepped into the elevator of Matt’s building.

The doorman had already announced her arrival. She’d heard Matt’s voice through the phone instructing the uniformed doorman to show her up.

She made a mental note to herself that Matt apparently didn’t retain a housekeeper on weekends. She’d learned long ago that every bit of information about a client could prove useful in constructing a profile for his ideal match.

They’d agreed to meet at his apartment on a Saturday—the only time Matt had available—to begin figuring out how to package him to meet Ms. Right.

As the elevator rose, its wood paneling and Oriental-pattern carpeting adding to the ambience of a building that spoke of wealth in hushed tones, Lauren wondered again whether she’d been crazy to take on this assignment.

Her effectiveness as a matchmaker depended on her ability to keep an emotional distance from her clients, but Matt was associated with the most explosive drama of her life.

On top of it all, she’d long ago sworn off on anybody associated with her former fiancé. Matt was rich, privileged and born to rule, and he’d been Parker’s would-be groomsman. In her mind, they were cut from the same cloth.

In fact, the building she’d just entered was the type of place she’d envisioned Matt living in. It was dark brick and prewar, with liveried doormen and a dark green awning.

The Whittakers were old-line, old-money Boston. Not surprisingly then, Matt’s apartment wasn’t a pretentious sprawling penthouse in a gleaming new high-rise, with an elevator opening directly into the apartment.

Instead, as she discovered when the elevator doors opened, there were two apartments on the top floor, and they shared a softly lit hallway.

Matt stood in the doorway to his apartment. He was dressed in business clothes, minus the suit jacket and tie.

He stepped aside. “Come on in. You’re right on time.”

Her heart beat faster. He was big, male and coated with just a veneer of civility.

Irritated with her reaction, she said, “Because we all know time is money, don’t we?”

Moving past him into the apartment, she added, “That’s the last impression you want to convey to a date.”

He followed her in and closed the door. “But what if I am timing her?”

“Maybe it would be best to save that sort of thing for after the wedding.” She knew it sounded as if they were talking about kinky sex, but proper dating etiquette was important in her book.

He made a sound of disbelief. “All right, duly noted. A patient guy may be the ultimate female fantasy, but he is just a fantasy.”

She smiled encouragingly. “Well, when we’re done, hopefully you’ll be the ultimate female fantasy.”

And, judging from the way her body was humming, he wasn’t doing a half-bad job as it was.

“I’ll start right now by taking your coat,” he said smoothly.

“Thank you.”

The brush of fingers at the nape of her neck sent shivers chasing down her spine.

After depositing her coat in a closet, he said, “Let me show you around.”

She tried to quell the spine-tingling sensations as he gave her a brief tour of the apartment.

The kitchen was spacious, with glass-door cherrywood cabinets, a large marble-topped center island and Miele stainless steel appliances.

In the formal dining room, the walls were painted red above ivory wainscoting and below ivory- painted molding. The chairs were upholstered in red and gold stripes, and several pieces, including the sideboard, looked as if they were antiques.

Lauren couldn’t help contrasting Matt’s dining room with the modest one in the home in Sacramento she’d grown up in, where the chintz wallpaper had been put up by her mother and the furniture bore the dents and scratches of one too many feet, including hers and those of her younger sister and brother.

When they moved on to Matt’s living room, she noted that this room at least was a nod to comfort. Sofas and armchairs, dressed in beige fabric and chocolate leather, clustered around a large fireplace.

The den followed on from the living room. Builtin bookshelves lined two walls, while the windows showcased spectacular views of downtown Boston.

Lauren could tell this was where Matt spent most of his time. The desk was covered with piles of paper and documents, and a laptop lay open. It was the only room so far that contained a trace of disorder.

Finally, they came to a long hallway.

Matt nodded down the rug-covered expanse. “This leads to the bedrooms and baths. A couple of years ago, I had the option to buy the apartment below and make this place into a duplex with a guest wing on the lower floor.” He shrugged. “But the apartment was already more than big enough for a bachelor.”

“Yes, I see.”

The penthouse was masculine and understated, but bore the unmistakable markings of a professional designer’s hand. Still, for all the expense, there was something missing.

It took her a second to figure out what.

There was no warmth to the place. No photographs documenting the occupant’s major life moments, no collectibles from memorable vacations, not even awards hinting at hobbies and favorite pastimes.

In short, Matt Whittaker remained as much a cipher as ever.

“It may need a little helping hand, however,” she said slowly.

“What does?”

“Your apartment.”

He looked around and frowned. “What’s wrong with it? I paid a professional.”

“Exactly.”

“It cost plenty—”

“—but has no heart,” she finished for him. “I’m surprised your designer didn’t incorporate your mementos and prized possessions when she redecorated.”

“The designer was someone recommended by my sister-in-law, and she did. But my stuff is still boxed up.”

“Hmm…and how long ago did you redecorate?”

He did not look amused. “I do a lot of corporate travel. I’m rarely here.”

“If you don’t have time to live in your apartment, you won’t have time to call her for a date.”

He looked ready with a rebuttal, and she restrained herself from tsk-tsking at the forbidding expression on his face.

“The deadline is Wednesday, by the way.”

“Wednesday, for what?”

“The day of the week by which you’ll call her for a weekend date.”

She realized she sounded like a scolding nanny, but it was the only way she knew not to be overwhelmed by him.

“Got it,” he said dryly. “Why do I feel as if I should be taking notes?”

“It may be a good idea. Anyway, traveling frequently would be a good excuse if you had another place you called home instead of—” she gestured around her “—this.”

He arched a brow.

“I’m not going to redecorate your apartment.” She sought to reassure him.

“Happy to hear it.”

“But I would suggest a few pieces to give a woman a clue about you. Maybe some strategically placed photos. Nothing major. We can find some frames that blend with your new decor.”

She was not going to be intimidated by him, she told herself for the umpteenth time. She’d handled high-powered prosecutors and corporate titans without being unnerved.

“Let’s look at your closets next,” she heard herself say. “Then maybe we can take the shopping trip we discussed as a possibility for this afternoon.”

On to his bedroom. She was about to discover what lay at the end of the long hallway in front of her.

His bedroom was huge, easily the size of half her modest apartment. A king-size bed dominated, and the furniture had a contemporary look—dark with clean lines and brushed metal knobs. A master bath was visible through one open door, and a fireplace occupied the wall facing the bed.

She took a deep breath. The room was as imposing as its occupant, but she was a professional. At least as far as matchmaking went, she qualified to herself.

She looked at the closet on the far wall. “May I?”

“Go right ahead.”

When she threw open the double doors, she was confronted by expensive shirts and conservative business suits hanging in neat rows. Everything was a variation on a theme.

“Where’s the casual clothing?” She looked at him, then raised a hand to stop him before he could answer. “No, don’t tell me. You live in suits most of the time.”

He cocked his head. “Very perceptive of you.”

“We’ll have to fix that.”

His look was sardonic. “Do you subject your female clients to this treatment?”

“Absolutely. It’s not about becoming someone you’re not, but about creating a better you.”

“So what do you recommend to the women?”

“Now if I told you, I’d be letting you in on the secret handshake.”

“My lips are sealed.”

She sighed. “I’ll share only because I think you’ll put this information to good use.”

A smile played at his mouth. “I’m all ears.”

“Well, I recommend that with clothing, they start with the basics, which never go out of fashion. A little black dress, a suit, a pair of jeans, a white shirt, nude color high heels, and a pair of sneakers. As far as jewelry, a watch and pearls.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why would I joke?” she asked. “The basics are just that. They can be mixed and matched to take you from morning to evening, casual to formal.”

“Okay, I have to ask. Why nude on the heels?”

“It’s sexy,” she said simply. “It draws the eye away from the feet and upward, which makes a woman appear taller, and is particularly important if she’s—” she paused, as she belatedly realized how much she was revealing, and finished lamely “—ah, petite.”

He gave her a look of mock gravity. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Naturally.” He could make fun all he wanted, but she had a nice little business going—and he’d been the one to seek out her help.

He raked her with his eyes, from the faux pearls set off by her scoop-neck sweater and the black jeans hugging her curves to her wedge sandals.

She shifted self-consciously, then gave herself a mental shake.

She was his matchmaker, and she was going to get him married off to some appropriate socialite or wannabe—even if she had to custom order a woman from Mattel with mythical characteristics to match a Barbie doll’s mythical proportions.

She was going to make him Ideal Match’s biggest success story to date, even if it dredged up every single best-forgotten memory in her.

“I suppose the pearls can be fake?” he queried.

“Of course. Everyone knows it’s nearly impossible to tell the difference between real and faux pearls by sight alone.”

“It’s nice to know your 12-step plan is accessible to the masses.”

She began flipping through the clothes hanging in his closet. “If you’re going to mock it, this exercise isn’t going to work.”

“Don’t worry. I’m taking it very seriously.” He paused. “So what basics do you advise men to take to a deserted island with them?”

“Prince Charming doesn’t need a list of essentials,” she said, matching his irreverent tone, “because for men, fashion is all about the basics. You know, suits, ties…a tux.”

“Great. Looks like I already have it covered.”

“Yes, but a pair of jeans would be useful,” she said, glancing back at him. “Men have the opposite problem from women, and that’s an inability to move beyond the essentials.”

“I own a pair of jeans.”

“That are how old—?”

He eyed her. “Nothing much escapes you, I can tell.”

She gave him a modest smile. “You hired me, you get the full extent of my expertise.”

“All right, how about this?” he countered. “I like my jeans, even if I don’t get to wear them much these days.”

“Yes, I know. Because you do a lot of business travel. We’ll need to do something about that. In the meantime, let’s get you into something your old college buddies won’t recognize.”

Lauren hoped if she kept concentrating on the task at hand, she’d keep illicit thoughts at bay. Authority and male power clung to him like a second skin, and she felt diminutive and feminine in contrast.

He looked at her bemusedly. “You know, I don’t let just anyone talk to me this way. Those who work for me never do, and even my business rivals know better.”

His look turned thoughtful. “This isn’t how I remember you.”

“Things can change in a few years,” she forced herself to say. She’d vowed never again to be so vulnerable…so naive.

“I can see that.”

They were drifting into dangerous territory, so she faced the closet again and tapped her lips with her index finger. “I’m thinking Helmut Lang on the jeans.”

“No way.”

She glanced at him. “If you were a denim fanatic, I’d suggest Japanese jeans made from organic cotton and natural dyes.”

“What’s wrong with Levi’s?”

“Nothing. It depends on the message you want to send.” The thought of him filling out a formfitting pair of Levi’s sent a wave of heat through her. “Actually, it wouldn’t hurt to inject an element of everyman into your image. It might be a nice balance, particularly if what you said in our interview is true and you’re looking for a down-to-earth woman.”

“I am.”

“All right, then.” Her gaze went back to his closet. “Let’s see if we can wake things up a bit.”



“No.”

“Real men wear pink.”

Matt eyed the dress shirt in Lauren’s hand. “Not flamingo pink.”

This afternoon’s shopping trip hadn’t been going as he’d expected. They’d hit some of Boston’s upscale men’s stores, ending up in Neiman Marcus.

As far as Matt could tell, Lauren was intent on softening his hard edges. Her idea appeared to be to make him seem like less of a hard-driving business executive so, with any luck, he’d become less of one, as well.

Not a chance, he wanted to warn her.

She sighed. “I see I’ll have to introduce you to P. Diddy’s fashion line.”

“Stick to Ralph Lauren Polo. You might have better luck.”

“You know, if I really wanted to recommend something trendy, I’d suggest bespoke clothing.”

“Bespoke?”

“Handmade.”

He made a sound of disbelief. He had his suits custom-made, but hand sewn was a different matter.

“Just for the record, the shade we were talking about is called fiesta berry.”

“They can call it lucky gambler’s red, but I won’t be wearing it.”

A middle-aged salesman approached, wearing a polite smile. “May I offer some assistance?”

“Thanks, but we were just leaving.”

Lauren smiled apologetically at the clerk. “We’re looking for something casual, but we seem to be having a difference of opinion.”

The man nodded. “Wives sometimes have a different opinion from their husbands.”

A look of embarrassment crossed Lauren’s face. “We’re not—”

“What my wife is trying to say,” he cut in, “is that we’re not looking just for casual clothing. She’s trying to soften my image at work, too.”

Lauren opened her mouth, but before she could say anything more, he took her elbow and steered her toward the salesman. “Come along, sweetheart. Let’s see what he can show us.”

To the salesclerk, he said, “Let’s start with some casual pants.”

“Very good,” the salesman said. “If you’ll follow me…?”

As they walked toward another section of the store, Lauren muttered, “What are you doing? If anyone recognizes you and thinks we’re an item, or worse, that you’re secretly married, you’ll undermine everything we’re trying to accomplish.”

“Don’t worry,” he said easily. “I’m the kind of action hero who is invisible to everyone but husband-hunting females.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “Really? And your superhero powers would be—?”

“I’d show you, but they’re best demonstrated privately.”

She compressed her lips. “I don’t know why he assumed we’re married. Neither of us is wearing a wedding band.”

“Not everyone wears a ring. Besides, girlfriends don’t pick out a man’s clothes, wives do.”

She opened her mouth again.

“If he thinks we’re married, he’ll listen to you. Otherwise, he’ll keep addressing me.”

“You put me on the spot.”

“Learn to ask for what you want. That’s the problem with women.”

She pulled her elbow from his grasp. “We’ll have to work on your unfortunate tendency to put the words problem and women in the same sentence.”

“When have I done that?” he said mildly. Ever since she’d arrived at his apartment, he felt as if he’d been taken to task by Ms. Manners. “All I said was I’ve been targeted by social climbers and gold diggers.”

“Same thing,” she responded before giving her attention to the salesman.

Lauren and the clerk got into a conversation about the “it” colors of the season and various private labels.

Matt limited his answers to yes, no and forget it. It was the way he was used to operating in the boardroom, and the approach had served him well.

He could tell it was exasperating Lauren, however.

When the clerk had gone to try to find an appropriate size, she asked, “Could you volunteer more than one-word answers?”

He gave her a slow smile. “Yes.”

She sucked in a breath, causing her chest to rise, and his gaze headed south.

When his eyes met hers again, a momentary but electric pause ensued.

“We may need to work on your conversation skills, too,” she said into the silence.

“They’ve served me well enough in the boardroom. Extraneous words are wasted energy. Why talk when there are more effective ways of communicating?”

He itched with a sudden urge to show her just how effective other modes of communication could be. They were standing in a very public place, with shoppers milling about around them, yet it felt as if they were in their own private world.

The salesman’s return, however, broke the spell, and they were directed toward a changing room. Lauren was shown to a chair outside to wait.

In the private room, he shrugged out of his clothes and into a pair of khakis and a casual shirt. He emerged a few minutes later so Lauren could pass judgment.

“Hmm,” she said.

Sitting with legs crossed, she tilted her head to the side. “Turn around.”

He eyed her, then did as she asked. The clothes weren’t his usual style but he was willing to bend a little.

More important, he couldn’t detect a hint that she was enjoying issuing commands and sitting in judgment. Still, he had his suspicions.

He turned back around.

“Good fit,” she said.

He’d never thought two such innocent words could be so erotic.

In fact, this whole shopping trip was turning into a more intimate experience than he’d ever have guessed. He felt like a Chippendales dancer at the start of a routine.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

Comfortable wasn’t the word he’d use. Turned- on was more like it, and if he wasn’t careful, it would soon be evident to everyone else, as well.

Aloud, he said, “They fit fine.” He nodded at the salesman standing nearby. “We’ll take them.”

“Very good,” the salesman said. “There are some belts I can show you.”

When the man had gone, Lauren said, “You’re decisive.”

“Impatient,” he corrected. “Usually I’m in and out of stores like this in less than thirty minutes. Ten to find what I’m looking for, five to try it on for size, and another ten to pay and make it out the door.”

She smiled sweetly. “But you’re such a natural!”

So she was enjoying this.

“I feel like a model in a bad TV ad,” he muttered.

“Actually, I’m helping to organize a fashion show to raise money for the Boston Operatic League. We’re still short on male volunteers to model the designer clothes that have been donated.”

“Forget it.”

“Consider it,” she cajoled. “It would be a wonderful way to meet people. You’d be in the perfect environment to find some sweet-tempered woman who thinks supporting the arts is important, while promoting yourself in the best light possible by helping out.”

“Nice try, but no dice.” In fact, if either of his brothers ever got wind of the fact he’d paraded up and down some runway in front of dozens of judgmental women, they’d dissolve into paroxysms of laughter. Not to mention that his reputation as a tough corporate adversary would take a hit.

He needed to slam on the brakes before Lauren transformed him into some smoking-jacket-wearing, charity-auction-volunteering, in-touch-with-his-feelings dream man.

He had his limits.

And those limits apparently included Levi’s, which is what he came away with, along with assorted other purchases.

As the salesclerk wrapped up the purchases, Matt admitted to himself that Lauren knew her stuff. If the matchmaking gig didn’t work out for her, she had a future as a personal shopper.

He’d let her take control today, more than he’d ever let anyone else do it when it came to his life. Or, rather, she’d alternately cajoled, coaxed and teased her way into getting what she wanted—at least some of the time.

The fact she was so small, and he loomed over her, just added to the irony of it all.

Thinking of how he outsized her, his body tightened, and he had to remind himself again that petite women weren’t his usual style. Especially one particular bossy petite woman who acted as if she was unsure whether she liked him. A petite woman whose primary interest in him appeared to be to further her business.

If it were otherwise, he’d have to start asking himself sticky questions about his past motives, and he didn’t want to go there.

So naturally, the first words out of his mouth were, “When are you open for dinner so I can brush up on my conversation skills?”




Three


It was just business and dinner. At least that’s what Lauren told herself. In fact, however, this practice dinner was unlike any other she’d been on.

Back at her initial meeting with Matt in her office, she’d mentioned she sometimes helped her clients with their conversation skills. She’d almost forgotten the fact…until Matt had decided to sign himself up.

Given how she’d barely survived their shopping outing last weekend, she’d approached tonight with not a little trepidation.

She’d been unable to stop thinking about Matt and how he’d looked on Saturday. The way he’d filled a pair of Levi’s…the way his lean muscles had appeared under a smooth T-shirt…the way her pulse had raced in response.

Getting dressed for dinner had been its own special torture. She’d waffled over what to wear.

She had a set repertoire for business meals—clothes that were chic but not too sexy. But hours ago, she’d decided nothing in her closet conveyed the right tone.

She’d finally settled on a wrap dress in a midnight color with three-quarter-length sleeves. She’d kept her hair loose and put on a pair of chandelier earrings. She’d finished off with black pumps.

Sure, it wasn’t her usual attire. It was more elegant cocktail party than expensive dinner. Still, her clothes were her armor, and she had to come equipped to handle the client she was seeing—in this case, two-hundred-plus pounds of high- powered male testosterone.

Now they sat facing each other, like two opponents in the centuries-old battle of the sexes, their weapons cutlery, wine goblets and as much repartee as she could stomach over an elegant dinner of lobster panzerotti.

They made small talk about their families, and they’d just started a conversation about the local theater scene when, with an apologetic look, Matt reached into his pocket. “I’m getting a call.”

He flipped open the phone. “Hello.”

Matt’s eyes stayed on hers while he listened.

Despite knowing his mind was elsewhere, Lauren felt tingling awareness dance along her nerve endings, just as it had done throughout dinner. Still, somewhat surprisingly, she’d found herself enjoying their conversation.

She watched as Matt said, “Right, okay.”

He flipped the phone closed and placed his table napkin to the side of his plate, his mouth set in a firm line. “I’ve got to take this.”

He got up, and she was distracted from replying by the waiter’s arrival to refill their wineglasses.

Ten minutes later, he was back.

As he sat down, she said, “Definitely a no-no.”

“Don’t tell me,” he said with mock warning.

“No cell phone calls. It gives the impression—”

“I know. It gives the impression I work for my money.”

“No, that you’re a workaholic.”

He looked exasperated. “It’s a Tuesday night.”

“Turn off the phone,” she said firmly. “Particularly on the first date.”

“This isn’t a real date.”

His response stung, even though he’d spoken the truth, and she worried again about her difficulty in keeping a professional distance.

Steering the conversation to safer waters, she said, “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your job?”

He raised a brow. “I thought I was supposed to be downplaying the fact that work is my mistress?”

“This isn’t a real date, remember?” she echoed, determined this time to remember the fact herself. “Besides, you need to practice how to leverage your job for maximum appeal on your real dates.”

“Leverage my job for maximum appeal? Is that matchmaker talk?”

“No, that’s what I call the Fletcher Method speaking.”

“How about letting my sizable cash flow speak for itself?” he quipped.

“Is that how an accountant talks dirty?” she parried.

He chuckled. “All right, I’ll play nice.”

Done with his food, he sat back and toyed with the stem of his wineglass.

She tore her mind away from thoughts of his firm, squareish, capable-looking hands.

“You’re the Chief Financial Officer of Whittaker Enterprises,” she began.

He gave a brief nod. “I’m the numbers guy.”

“But never boring,” she supplied.

“Don’t get me started on cash-based versus accrual accounting,” he said with dire warning.

“Definitely not something to get into on a first date. That is, unless she’s a number cruncher herself.” She added smoothly, “So what does a CFO do exactly?”

He frowned. “What sorts of dates are you planning to set me up with? I’m not going to have the patience to deal with a clueless beauty queen.”

“Humor me.”

He sighed. “I provide the financial strategy for Whittaker Enterprises. We’re a family-owned conglomerate with technology and real estate interests.”

“I’ve read about you in the business section of the papers.”

“Have you?” he murmured.

She got the impression he was intrigued by the fact, and wondered whether she’d revealed too much.

In Boston, the Whittakers and their family-run company were omnipresent. Over the years, she’d been unable to resist reading the articles about Matt. He’d remained single, playing the field, keeping mum about his private life, and at the same time, cutting a wide swath across the corporate landscape.

“Day to day,” he went on, “I oversee the budget process and head up internal departments at Whittaker Enterprises, including administration and information technology.”

“My eyes haven’t glazed over yet.”

His lips quirked up. “I romance numbers, and lust after a positive bottom line.”

“Very funny.”

“I get upset when figures don’t balance, and nothing turns me on like a positive account.”

“See?” she said encouragingly. “You can make this interesting.”

“That’s the day job. I moonlight investing in new companies.”

She raised her brows. “You’re a venture capitalist?”

“I’m an angel, sweetheart,” he said, and the look he gave her was devilish.

Her mind tripped over his casual use of the endearment, even as she reminded herself again that their date wasn’t real. Still, this Matthew Whittaker was a lot more seductive than the one she remembered from five years ago.

“I give seed money before venture capitalists get involved. We’re called angels in the investment world.”

“I see.”

“The call I got earlier was about a company I’m thinking of investing in.”

At her questioning look, he supplied, “The company founder is having trouble ceding control to professional management.”

“Interesting.”

He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers. “Tonight, though, all I’m interested in is investing in you.”

As a come-on line, it was inventive and not half-bad.

After a moment, his eyes danced. “How’m I doing?”

“Not bad.” She cleared her throat and tried to clear her mind. She really had to stay on topic. “We should discuss how you’re going to describe yourself to a real date.”

“Tell me more about the Fletcher Method,” he countered.

“It’s a little like detox. It’s boot camp for entry into long-term commitment.”

“By reprogramming men?”

“Both sides,” she insisted. “It tries to clue in both parties about the expectations of the other side.”

“In other words, remember Valentine’s Day, her birthday and your anniversary.”

“That’s right, because, you know, there’s nothing that says ‘I love you’ like a Valentine’s Day card sent overnight express by your secretary.”

He smiled. “Okay, I’ll file that tip away. No more urgent deliveries arranged by the secretary.”

“That’s a start. Many men wake up well into their marriages scratching their heads and saying, ‘What did I do wrong?’ They don’t have a clue as to why the woman is upset. I don’t just want my clients to find a match, I want them to find a lasting match.”

He contemplated her for a moment. “Matchmaking is a curious field for you to go into.”

“You mean because I’ve had such bad luck in love myself?” She put into words what he’d left unstated.

He inclined his head.

“Not so curious. I have no intention of taking the plunge myself anytime soon.”

“A bit cynical for a matchmaker, aren’t you?”

“I suppose it’s easy for you—or anyone—to think that, since I was stood up at the altar, but it’s far from the truth.”

The times any of her clients had bothered to delve into her past or had recognized her as Parker’s jilted bride, she’d had the same answer at the ready. After all, no one wanted to take advice from a matchmaker who was unlucky in love.

In fact, the effects of a powerful cocktail of pain, humiliation and, yes, seething anger had worn off long ago. These days, she was on an even keel—except when her past came back to visit her, especially in the form of an enigmatic corporate tycoon.

Matt looked at her quizzically. “Have you ever thought maybe not getting married to Parker was for the best?”





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