The first man had her looking around to see if the whole event was actually a practical joke...one made wholly at her expense. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been. “King John” owned a line of portable toilets used at construction sites and such. “John ain’t my name. It’s Bruce,” he’d said. “But I’m talkin’ ‘John’ as in shitter, sweet cheeks. Get it?”
The “King” had tried to pump her for legal advice for the first thirty minutes of their forty-five-minute introduction. When she’d said that she didn’t give legal advice outside the office, he’d shrugged. Then his face lit with enthusiasm. He offered to take her on a tour of his “personal facilities” as he slid his filthy booted foot up the inside of her bare leg while waggling his eyebrows and asking, again, if she “got it.”
She stood, told him she definitely “got it” and said that if he didn’t get out before the next session, she’d have him thrown out. Then she went straight to the bar and ordered a mojito.
The second man she’d been matched with had been so initially forgettable that he seemed harmless—he reminded her of an actor who played a scientist on a popular sitcom. As irony would have it, the guy was actually a scientist. He held a doctorate in astronomy from MIT. But he also lived in his mother’s basement and was a certified conspiracy theorist. He had spent the entire time telling her that the evening’s events were part of a breeding study being carried out by the government.
When the bell announcing the conclusion of the second match sounded, Rachel had nearly tipped over her chair as she stood and headed for the bar. That hadn’t stopped the guy from calling out an invitation to go back to his mom’s place “to copulate in the name of science.”
Her second drink had been a shot of tequila.
So had her third, and she hadn’t even met the third man she’d been paired with.
She also hadn’t been the only woman at the bar. The bartender had been pouring as fast as he could for the mass of women crowding the counter, all of them sporting some level of shock.
If she was honest with herself, it seemed most prudent at this point to simply cut and run. She wasn’t even opposed to leaving her coat. It could be replaced. Her sanity? No such guarantees. Yes, she needed the money for her vacation. But she was more than willing to eat a ramen-only diet to pay off the trip’s outstanding balance. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d borrow from her 401(k). Anything had to be better than this.
Decision made, she left the women’s room and headed for the exit.
Someone lightly touched her arm, and Rachel spun to find the moderator, Jaline, looking at her. “Is something wrong?”
“You could say that. First, I was felt up by the steel-toed work boot of the man I wouldn’t have selected as a partner if humanity’s very existence hung in the balance. I told him to leave without consulting you, but I also likely saved you sexual-harassment charges. You’re welcome, but make sure he’s taken off the roster for future events. I mean it.” She knew she sounded as crazed as she felt, but there was no reining it in. “My second match is a conspiracy theorist who probably believes Star Trek—any generation—was a documentary. He offered to procreate, in his bedroom in his mother’s basement, in the name of science. I don’t know where you found these guys, but they aren’t even remotely the type of partners we were promised. They aren’t like-minded. They aren’t civilized. And they certainly aren’t gentlemen. Given the looks on most of the women’s faces at the bar, you’re going to need to provide post ‘power match’ therapy to help them get over the horrors of agreeing to this farce.”
Chest heaving, she turned to go, but Jaline stopped her, this time grabbing her arm with enough force to startle Rachel. The woman’s eyes were wide, her expression harried.
“Please, Ms....”
“Stephens. Rachel Stephens.”
“Please, Ms. Stephens. Rachel. I’ll personally ensure the first man is removed from our test pool and flag his application as an automatic rejection if he tries to reapply. I’ll also have the second man’s application reviewed to see how he got through to the test phase. Neither of these men represents Power Match’s ultimate bachelor. Please, stay through the last round of introductions? As a test applicant, your participation helps us sort out any glitches in the app before it goes live.” The diminutive woman shuddered. “Can you imagine what would happen if we didn’t figure this stuff out first?”
Rachel hesitated. “I appreciate the position you’re in, but it’s been a colossally bad night, Jaline. I just want to go home.”
The woman held out her hand for Rachel’s crumpled paperwork. “I’ll make you a deal. Let me personally vet the final candidate you’ve been paired with. If I don’t think he’s a good match, I’ll see you out myself and sign your paperwork so you can still collect the compensation.”
Rachel clutched her paperwork. “Let me get this straight. If he’s not legit, if he’s another ‘glitch,’ I get to leave and I still get paid as if I’d sat through all three rounds.”
“You have my word.” Jaline eased the paperwork from Rachel’s fist and flipped through several pages. “By choosing to stay, you’re helping to ensure this doesn’t happen...” Her gaze snapped to Rachel’s. “You’re going to want to stay.”
“Why?” Skepticism weighted the one-word question. “Who is he?”
“Your next power match is...” Her cheeks flushed, and she fanned herself.
Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re actually blushing. Who is this guy?”
“I’ll allow him to introduce himself. But I’ll promise you ahead of time that he’s incredibly easy to look at, he’s the very definition of corporate success and he’s a gentleman through and through. You aren’t going to want to miss this introduction.”
Curiosity always got the best of her in the worst situations, and this evening certainly qualified as a personal “worst.”
Jaline seemed to sense her hesitation and leaned in close, speaking low enough that only Rachel could hear her. “I’ll stay within sight. If he says or does anything you don’t like, just...” She looked around and ended up pulling a rubber band out of her little bag. “Put your hair up in a topknot and I’ll come running.” When Rachel still didn’t agree, the woman took her by the arm and steered her across the room, every step taken with undeniable purpose. They neared a table at the far corner of the dance floor. A man sat alone, his back to the room, balancing his chair on the two rear legs. The lazy way he rocked forward and back announced to anyone and everyone that he was thoroughly bored.
His short, black hair was neatly trimmed. His suit was cut so it framed his broad shoulders and, even slouched as he was, he was tall.
“That’s him?” she asked, squashing an unexpected wave of anticipation.
“Yes.” Jaline threw her a little side-eye. “He’ll be worth your time. Trust me.”
Rachel scowled at her. “I never trust people who say ‘trust me,’” she murmured.
“Wise,” the man said.
She shot Jaline a wide-eyed look. “Supersonic hearing?”
Jaline slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.
He turned just enough to offer her a glance at his profile. “Nothing so extraordinary. I’m just used to people talking about me behind my back.”
Tall.
Check.
From what she could see? Smoking hot.
Check-check.
If chemistry sparked between them?
A shiver ran up her spine.
Rachel pulled out her chair and slowly sat, facing the man she hadn’t expected to find.
Mr. Right Now.
CHAPTER FOUR
ISAAC LOOKED UP as the chair opposite him was pulled away from the table. A woman in a dark green dress sank onto the seat with incredible grace, setting her clutch in her lap before crossing her legs in a controlled move that drew his attention. His ga
ze rested on the dress’s short hem before he realized that her legs were bare. In October.
Isaac shifted slightly in his seat. He had always appreciated the way women’s bodies appeared deceptively softer, their more subtly sculpted lines and lithe forms imbued with inherent grace. And when a woman worked to enhance those fine lines and fluid form? He appreciated it all the more. Without a doubt, the woman who had taken a seat across from him put in more than sufficient time to hone her form. She’d done such a magnificent job that, embarrassingly, Isaac found himself staring.
Appreciating.
Craving.
The woman began tapping a well-manicured fingernail against the small bag in her lap. “Let me know when you’re done with the physical assessment. The timer on our little meeting starts in—” she twisted in her chair, then twisted back “—about three minutes.”
“Plenty of time, then.”
“Time for...”
“Surely you’ve heard how important first impressions are.”
Her finger—the one tap-tap-tapping her handbag—went still. “And what, exactly, are you doing to secure that all-important first impression?”
“I’m sitting here trying not to intimidate you.”
She laughed then, the sound as promising as room-temperature bourbon poured over chilled whiskey stones.
“Do that again,” he said quietly, his gaze hovering at the highest point of the slit in the dress, the one that exposed a thin strip of smooth skin on the outside of her upper thigh.
“Do what again?” she asked in that sin-and-redemption voice.
“Laugh.”
“Make me.”
Isaac leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Who was she, this stranger, that she thought she stood a chance in hell of ordering him to do anything at all?
Had the dress she was wearing been displayed in a museum, it would have been called “Temptation in Textiles.” And with just cause. It was cut so that it showcased her best physical assets—long legs, trim waist, pert breasts, pale skin and that elegant neck, half-hidden by the mass of loosely curled mahogany hair. That strong jaw.
He liked defined characteristics in a woman—knew men who much preferred their women softer, both in form and personality. Not him. As far as Isaac was concerned, strength was strength. And strength trumped softness each and every time.
Whoever this woman was, she understood the value of strength.
But she didn’t realize whom she was facing off with.
He tried to decide what color he’d call her skin. From that glimpse of thigh to the line of her jaw, the tone was that of diluted honey—warm but not quite tan. The sun would give her more warmth if she spent much time outdoors. But he knew she didn’t. The finger that had tapped her bag was too smooth, unblemished, to belong to someone who did anything outside besides, perhaps, run.
Another look at her legs and, yes, she was a runner.
She smiled, and his attention shifted to her lips.
Lush but not bee-stung. Not thin. Lips that framed a decidedly smart mouth.
For now, that was amusing. And now was all they’d have. He glanced at the meeting timer. Forty-three minutes.
“If you’re bored, you could try conversation. It’s a universally accepted means of passing the time.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Are you always so...”
“Quick-witted?” she offered.
“Snarky.”
She shrugged. “Semantics.”
He quieted, waiting to see what she would add in the hanging silence.
She stared at him, also waiting on...something. What? Conversation? Yet the longer they sat there, the more clear it became that she might just be able to wait him out.
Seconds passed, crossing the one-minute mark and dragging on before she couldn’t stand the building tension and broke the silence.
“Okay,” she said, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the table, her breasts pressed together by her biceps so that her cleavage nearly doubled. “I’ll get the ball rolling. What’s your name?”
He rose.
She followed suit.
He held out a hand.
She stared at it for a moment and then offered her own hand in return.
A jolt of awareness passed through him not unlike a mild electrical shock. “I’m Isaac Miller.”
“Rachel Stephens.”
“And what do you do for a living, Ms. Stephens?”
“Please, call me Rachel.”
He didn’t blink, didn’t look away. “Isaac.”
“I’m a lawyer... Isaac.”
He sank back into his seat and folded his hands across his abdomen. “You’re a rare woman, Rachel.”
“And how did you come to that determination in under five minutes?” There was a smile hidden in the question as she sat down.
“You’re an attorney.”
“Yes.”
“Are you successful?”
“Each person measures success against different markers.”
“By your own, then.”
She lifted one shoulder, her head tilting to the side as she considered him. “By my measure? Yes. But there are still mountains to climb and glass ceilings to shatter.”
He nodded in agreement. “You’ll get there. You clearly have a mind that complements your appearance.”
“I look smart?” Surprise played through her wide gaze.
He fought the urge to smile. Letting go of his iron control now wouldn’t do. But she deserved clarification. “You look absolutely stunning, to be frank. What I meant was that your mind seems as attractive as your—”
“My body,” she said, surprising him.
He had wanted to say “body,” but that wasn’t acceptable. Not by his or society’s standards.
“Admit it,” she teased. “That’s what you were going to say, but you backed yourself into a conversational corner.”
“Certainly...not.” One corner of his mouth turned up against his will when Rachel laughed again. The sound shot through him, landing at the base of his spine, making his balls draw up tight.
She leaned forward and, in a stage whisper, said, “That was a pathetic cover.”
“It was,” he admitted. Curiosity rarely provoked him to action, but tonight it won over his typically analytical approach. “May I ask you something, Rachel?”
“That’s what we’re here for.”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?” she countered. When he paused, she pressed. “I’m looking for honesty, Isaac. Not wordplay.”
He sat back in his seat. A woman who openly asked for honesty...and, he believed, meant it. Isaac’s curiosity was more piqued than ever.
“Fine. Long story short, I wasn’t supposed to be a candidate, but I came tonight to appease the app developer.”
“Who is he to you?”
“A...client.” Isaac rolled his shoulders. She didn’t need to know who Jonathan was. It wasn’t relevant.
“A client.” She tilted her head to one side, considering him. “And what is it you do, Isaac?”
“I work with a capital-investment firm.”
“So your company bankrolls ideas and software or software applications other people come up with and then you...what? How do you get back your initial investment?”
“We essentially buy into whatever the idea or product is and, in exchange for start-up funding, we become part owners in the new venture. If that venture is successful, my firm is paid something equivalent to dividends on that success.”
“So you help people get started and then ride their coattails indefinitely.” She gave him an innocent look that forewarned him that whatever came next would be sharp. Or clever. Perhaps both. “Sounds a bit like a high-end pyramid scheme.”
&
nbsp; Both.
And it fascinated him. Here sat a woman who didn’t stroke his ego. A woman comfortable in her skin. A woman who knew her worth. He hadn’t experienced anyone like her before. Similar, but no one had ever possessed the entire package—the one that made up his perfect woman. But here she sat, wearing confidence like a cloak, sexuality like stilettos, and wielded her curiosity like a sword.
He would have to mind himself. Because by doing nothing more than being true to herself, Rachel Stephens threatened Isaac’s vow to get in and out of tonight’s social experiment without making a connection.
The alarm sounded, signaling they had just fifteen minutes before their time together reached its scheduled end.
Realization that this meeting was nearly over moved Isaac to act, something he never did without weighing the consequences, measuring pros and cons. Not now, though. Now? He had to admit he wasn’t ready to walk away from this woman, and he’d do whatever he had to do to ensure their time together wasn’t finished.
Not yet.
Whatever he did, he had to figure out what the hell was happening between them.
* * *
Anticipation hummed along every nerve in Rachel’s body, but the feeling was, without a doubt, most concentrated in the most inconvenient places. The back of her neck. Her breasts. The lowest part of her pelvis. Her entire sex. There was no denying that Isaac Miller scored one hundred percent when graded against the Mr. Right Now trifecta scorecard.
She could’ve added a few extra attributes—maybe humility or even... Oh, who cared. Nothing so mundane would really matter when it came down to brass tacks. Or silk sheets.
So, with fifteen minutes left in the evening, she had to admit that she had found a man who qualified as Mr. Right Now. And she owed herself a win.
That meant figuring out if Isaac was interested in her before the final bell rang and, if he was, how to get things to go down the path that ended with rumpled sheets and a little pillow talk prior to saying their farewells.
But before she could test the waters, he parked his elbows on the table and pressed his hands together, almost as if he was praying. Dark blue eyes that had been casually guarded all night were suddenly serious. “How confident are you in your poker face?”
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