Kitabı oku: «Captivated By The Tycoon»
Captivated by The Tycoon
Anna DePalo
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.”
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