“He managed to snag an heiress.” The admission was thick. Heavy.
“An heiress whose family made their money by revolutionizing the laxative industry. A shit for a shit. It’s so apropos.”
The sound Rachel made was half laugh, half sob.
“Like I said, what you need is Mr. Right Now, Rachel. Stop disqualifying every man who comes on to you. Instead, look for the opportunity to have fun. It’s the only way you’re going to break that last tie, Rach. And it’s time. Let. Him. Go.”
She knew Casey was right. Even if it was just for a single night, Rachel needed to try to relish every moment. She needed to be adventurous instead of cautious, a sexual creature who took chances despite the odds and dared Fate to strike back.
It was time she proved to herself that, though Jeff might have left her damaged, he hadn’t been able to break her.
No one was that strong.
Casey’s voice was softer when she spoke, as if she knew where Rachel’s thoughts had taken her. “Pull your hair down out of the predictable chignon, put on that damn green dress and go have a good time. Don’t do it for me, though. Do it for you—for the woman you were and will be again. Starting now.”
Familiar doubt crept in. She’d once been brave, adventurous, more than a little bit wild. She’d liked herself then. Jeff had liked her, too. It had changed after they’d married, his concept of wifely behavior so different than the woman he’d married. It wasn’t lost on her that the woman Jeff had left her for was exactly the type of woman Rachel had been. The woman who was on everyone’s invite list. The woman who was full of enthusiasm and possessed an easy way about her. Someone with a quick wit and an adventurous spirit.
“Don’t go down that dark path, Rachel. Please.”
It was the please that did her in. Casey didn’t beg. Ever. And here she was, reduced to pleading with Rachel to live her life?
“You make a hell of a compelling closing argument, Case.”
“You always said cases are easy to win when you know you’re right.”
With shaking hands, Rachel undid the buttons on the black suit jacket, then shed the heels and the pants. She pulled out the dark green sheath dress, cut off the tags and slipped it on. Next, she grabbed the pair of black patent-leather stilettos from the back of the closet—shoes she’d sworn to only wear when she finally worked up the moxie to wear the dress.
Tonight was the night.
Pulling the pins from her hair, she let the mass of mahogany waves tumble down her back. She bent at the waist and flipped over her hair, fluffing it with her fingers until it was free and loose and a bit wild. She flipped it back and turned to face herself in the mirror.
She couldn’t help but smile. The woman looking back at her was someone she hadn’t seen in far too long, but she would have recognized her anywhere. A quietly confident laugh escaped her, the sound also something she hadn’t heard in a while, and she had missed it.
“You did it,” Casey whispered. “You put on the damn dress.”
“I did.”
The other woman let out what could only be described as a whoop. “Go get him, tigress! Own tonight!”
“No apologies.”
“No regrets,” her best friend in the world said. “You better come by my office the minute you get in tomorrow morning because I’m telling you now, I want deets. Dirty, dirty deets.”
“We’ll see if there’s anything to tell. I have to make a connection first. And it has to be real.”
“Let’s agree on this now because I know that if you tell me you’ll do something, you’ll do it. Always. You don’t break vows.”
Rachel swallowed hard. “Agree on what, exactly?”
“The three qualifications Mr. Right Now has to have to pass the Rachel Stephens test.”
“Three?” Rachel squeaked.
“Three.”
“A guy has to have more than three qualifications for me to consider getting down and dirty.”
“No, he doesn’t. If we were discussing Mr. Right? Sure. But we aren’t. This is Mr. Right Now. So three it is.”
Rachel scowled.
“You’re almost six feet yourself, so he has to be tall,” Casey said, starting the list.
“Kind,” Rachel countered.
“Kind is for counselors and protein bars.”
“Casey,” Rachel warned.
“He needs to be seriously hot.”
“Intelligent,” Rachel countered. While a guy being hot was nice, his looks did nothing to help a conversation along if he wasn’t bright.
“Intelligent can be a bonus qualifier. This is a one-night stand, Rach, not someone who’s boyfriend material.”
“Fine. But, Casey?” She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to imagine what strangers might see when they looked at her. “There has to be chemistry. Real chemistry. That’s not negotiable.”
“Then there’s your list.”
“What?” Panic nearly choked her. “That’s not enough!”
“Yes, it is. For a one-night stand, it’s plenty.” That tone—it was one Rachel recognized.
That tone meant Casey had reached the point she was about to let down the facade she sported, the one of the fun-loving, slightly ditzy blonde femme fatale. One could push Casey only so far and then boom! She dropped the facade and the hard-ass took over. Rachel had her own version, she supposed. Or she had once. Regardless, she didn’t want to fight with Casey. She needed her too much right now.
“Now promise me—swear to me—that if you meet a guy with these three qualities, you’ll make a play.”
Rachel swallowed once, then twice, through a throat clenched tight in history’s unyielding fist. She took a deep breath, admiring the way the dress made her full B-cup breasts look just a little larger, the push-up bra making her cleavage just a little more substantial than it really was. “Remind me to send a thank-you note to Victoria’s Secret for their water bra.”
Casey laughed. “Deets, girlfriend. I want the down and dirty tomorrow because I’m telling you now, there will be a connection tonight.”
Rachel closed her eyes and smiled. Maybe Casey was right. Maybe tonight was the night she’d back take her life.
No. No maybes about it. Tonight was the night. She would own it, and whatever happened? Happened. “I promise,” she whispered. “Casey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m back.”
The other woman sniffled, the sound small but undeniable, and her voice wavered a bit when she spoke. “I’ve missed you, Rach.”
“Me, too, honey. Me, too.” She stood up straight and took one last look at herself in the mirror. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have men to meet and connections to make.” She paused for a split second, trying to find the right words. Then she said, “Thank you, Casey. Thank you for standing by me and for reminding me who I really am.”
“Thank you for finally listening. Now go slay the last of your dragons, and do it without remorse.” The grin on her friend’s face translated seamlessly to her tone.
“No regrets,” she affirmed.
Casey disconnected the call without another word.
Rachel grabbed her satin clutch and dropped her bold red lipstick inside before snapping the little bag closed. One last glance in the small mirror beside her front door confirmed that the woman who looked back was ready.
Her eyes shone with a vitality she had missed for a very long time. She took a deep breath and pressed a fist against her abdomen in an attempt to settle sudden nerves fluttering behind her belly button. It didn’t matter if the man she connected with was Casey’s brother, the bartender or one of the software engineers for the Power Match app. If there was chemistry, she was going to see this through. A liberation, of sorts. But more, a definitive reclaiming of her life.
A small, involuntary smile pull
ed at the corners of her mouth.
No regrets, indeed.
CHAPTER THREE
ISAAC STOOD AT the bar, the crowd at his back, and sipped a dirty martini. Two olives. Shaken, not stirred. Alcohol—something he rarely indulged in—was the evening’s only saving grace.
Seeing as he had no intention of actually trying to find a partner tonight, it seemed pointless to pay any attention to the singles milling around the room. That included the three women who had, one at a time, attempted to engage him in conversation. He’d politely excused himself to speak to an acquaintance here or there, or to go back to the coat check to retrieve the phone he’d claimed he’d forgotten. Each woman had been irritated but had accepted his unsubtle dismissal. Not an ounce of real moxie in any of them. It surprised him that he was mildly disappointed.
Behind him, the crowd mingled and made small talk as they tried to figure out whom in the group they might end up paired with. There was a great deal of forced laughter from women and posturing from men. Both groups were trying too hard. So Isaac continued to sip his drink and ignore them all.
The moderator entered his peripheral view, and he watched as she took over the small platform where the DJ likely held court on any given night. The woman, whom Isaac recognized from one of the meetings between his investment firm and Jonathan’s lead team, fiddled with the mic. What was her name...? Jamie? Janie? Something like that. She’d been impressive; he remembered that much. She was the team’s lead psychologist, stolen from a competitor, and the person singularly responsible for creating the personality-profiling system that Jonathan had turned into code.
Jaline.
Her name was Jaline.
The mic screeched, and the crowd winced before someone started clapping and everyone followed suit.
Jaline took a mock bow, then lifted the mic. “Good evening. My name is Jaline. You’re all here because—”
Half listening to Jaline’s presentation and half developing the following morning’s agenda, Isaac pulled his phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. There was no reason the interim couldn’t be turned into productive time. Opening the phone’s note-taking app, he began to tap out a rough outline for the first of three meetings scheduled before noon.
A round of applause had him lifting his head and looking around. People had begun to move en masse, approaching the makeshift stage from where Jaline had been speaking.
Isaac signaled the bartender. “What did I miss?”
“Instructions on how to find the love of your life, apparently.” The guy grinned. “If it were that easy, I’d be out of a job.”
Shaking his head, Isaac handed the guy a twenty. “Another drink, my friend, and the CliffsNotes version of the speech I just ignored.”
“Make your way to the table, pick up the paperwork with your first name, last initial and unique participant ID. Men go the numbered table to which they’ve been assigned.” The bartender shook the drink with expertise and poured it with little more than a glance at the glass. “The app’s magic algorithms ensure that at least one woman who has a compatible personality and similar interests will make her way to your table. If you’re lucky, Cupid will follow before the clock strikes twelve—” he slid the drink to Isaac “—or the bar closes at two. Whichever comes first.”
“Funny guy,” Isaac murmured into the glass before taking a sip.
The alcohol burned his throat, and the pungent fumes left him craving clean, unfiltered air. Maybe this weekend he’d head up to the Poconos. For all that he loved the city—its vibrancy, international community and resulting diverse culture—there was nothing like New York’s mountains in the fall.
“Isaac?”
He turned toward the familiar voice. “Hello, Jaline.”
She handed him his packet and visibly cringed. “Sorry. Jonathan said to make sure you didn’t skip out.”
Irritation prickled along his hairline and he rubbed at the sensation, trying to get it to go away. “I told him I wouldn’t bail on him, and I won’t.”
“Fair enough. My job is to get you your paperwork and see you seated at table twelve. Then? I’m out, and you’re on your own with the women Lucky paired you with.”
“Fantastic.” In reality, this whole thing was anything but.
Taking the paperwork, he made his way to table twelve, well aware the woman watched his every move. He had to wonder what she’d do if he feinted toward the door, but he didn’t. He was many things—unnecessarily cruel wasn’t one of them. That he’d even considered it was evidence as to how much the evening had worn on him. Only brotherly affection kept him from walking out. Jonathan had made it clear he needed Isaac to see this through. And at the end of the night, Isaac would be disqualified for any future test runs of the Power Match app.
Whatever. It amused him that he would end up being declared insufficient. That hadn’t ever happened to him before.
Sinking into a chair, he set his drink and paperwork on the table and then shrugged out of his suit jacket. Less than two minutes passed before he found himself putting the jacket on again.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, yanking the jacket so it hung straight and then rearranging his tie. “It’s a couple hours of one night of my life. Nothing more. I’ve been civil for far longer and under worse conditions.” He picked up his martini glass and gave Jaline, who still watched him, a somber salute. “I’ll survive.”
With the lyrics from that same iconic 70s song ringing through his head, he smiled benignly as the first woman approached his table.
* * *
Rachel leaned over the ladies’-room counter and reapplied her lipstick. The sound system had been piped into the spacious room, so she heard the moderator calling participants together to attend what was deemed their final “power match.” The woman’s enthusiasm grated on Rachel’s nerves, particularly since her first two meet and greets had been unmitigated catastrophes.
“Calling all lab rats together for the final observation session of mating behaviors as they occur in an urban environment,” someone said from behind a closed stall door.
“In a controlled urban environment,” someone else qualified from another stall.
The two commentators laughed.
Rachel didn’t.
Were they right? Was that all this was—a structured environment where psychologists would watch with an educated eye and report their findings back to the mysterious people who designed apps like this? What would they do with the personal information when the app went live? She racked her brain, trying to remember the contract language regarding using an applicant’s personal information for advertising and promotional purposes.
Damn it. Wine haze had her questioning what she thought she remembered.
She knew better than to sign anything, even her bar tab, when she’d had that third glass of red.
Could she back out? Yes, but she needed the cash offered to participants to pay off the remaining balance on her March trip with Casey to the Dominican Republic. If she didn’t collect the two grand, she’d be seriously hard-pressed to make that vacation happen. And she needed that vacation. Two weeks in paradise. No incessantly ringing phones. No senior attorneys treating her like she was a secretary instead of an active member of the New York State Bar. No ten-and twelve-hour days ending with cold Chinese takeout. No Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons in the office trying to catch up. No insane commute that involved crowded subway stations, jostling crowds at every crosswalk or attempts to avoid the unpredictable weather.
Two weeks of complimentary drinks, fine dining, spa services and beach chairs situated just out of reach of the surf.
“For that, I can tolerate a hell of a lot more than being called a lab rat,” she said to her reflection.
An attractive woman left one of the stalls, stepped up to the mirror and began fussing with her hair. “You here for the da
ting thing?”
“Yeah.” Rachel glanced over. “You?”
“No. I’m Jaline’s assistant.”
Rachel searched her brain for the name but came up empty. “Jaline?”
“Jaline Harkins. The moderator.” Making an O with her mouth, the woman used a piece of tissue to clean up the places she seemed to think her lipstick had feathered. “She’s the doctor—well, she’s a psychologist but has her PhD—for the app developer. She worked for the number one dating app in the United States, developing the software that helped them get to where they were. But the guy who came up with the app that paired powerful men and women? He came in and stole her right out from under the competition.”
A warning bell sounded in Rachel’s head. “If she had a noncompete, and I can’t imagine she didn’t, she’s violating the terms of her employment.” And any reasonably intelligent employer would have had a noncompete in place if this woman, Jaline, had exclusive access to proprietary information like the competitor’s software.
Jaline’s assistant elegantly lifted one shoulder with obvious indifference. “No idea. All I know is that Jaline took me with her.” The stranger casually glanced at Rachel from the corner of her eye. “Jaline even got me a raise out of the whole thing. She told me that the guy who scooped us has some pretty serious capital backing. And with Jaline handling the psychology between good and bad matches? This new app is going to be a huge success.”
Rachel had no idea what she was expected to say to that, so she just nodded.
“What do you do?” the other woman asked.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Cool. Your first two matches—what did you think?” The woman didn’t give Rachel time to answer before continuing. “If you’ll excuse me, she’ll need me on the floor as the men try to navigate the paperwork for this final power match. Even men deemed professionally powerful need an assistant if forms are involved. Best of luck finding Mr. Right,” she called over her shoulder as she left the bathroom and returned to the bar.
“I just need to find Mr. Right Now,” Rachel said to the empty air. Neither man she’d been paired with so far had even come close.
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