Matched

by Kelli Ireland

  But still, by her admission, a glitch.

  Unwilling to go down that path, he set aside his plate, flipped the covers back, stood and stretched. “Well, my sexy glitch, what do you say we abandon this fine establishment and go see as much of this city as we can before we’re required to return to real life?”

  Rachel scrambled out of bed and reached for her little suitcase filled with new clothes, retrieving what were unquestionably his favorite pair of jeans on her and a heavy wool sweater. “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

  “What do you want to see first?”

  “Everything,” she answered as she pulled her sweater over her head.

  “I’ll do my best,” he declared.

  And he meant it.

  They spent the day exploring as much of Dublin as they could on foot before, with more regret than he could ever have anticipated, it was time for them to gather their things and head to the airport, where his corporate jet waited.

  They talked the entire way home, arguing at times over differences of opinion. He loved that she had no problem holding her position, even if he battered her beliefs with irrefutable facts. She didn’t cave, held firm and gave as well as she got.

  The woman was one in a million.

  She slept the last leg of the trip, rousing only when he woke her for their descent into LaGuardia.

  “How are we here? I just went to sleep,” she mumbled into her pillow.

  “That was three hours ago.”

  “Whatever.” She buried her face in her pillow.

  “C’mon, Rachel. You know the drill.” He hooked an arm around her shoulders and sat her up, using his free hand to lean her seat forward. “Seat in the upright and locked position.”

  “Blah, blah, blah.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “What good is being rich if you have to follow all the rules?” she grumbled.

  “You’re cute when you’re irritated.”

  “Then I ought to be damn precious right about now.”

  He grinned. “You are.”

  “Don’t patronize a sleepy woman. I need coffee first.”

  He laughed, warming when she turned away to hide her answering smile.

  The lights of New York City were brilliant, reflecting off the overcast sky so that the city itself appeared to glow.

  “Seems we brought the gloomy weather home with us.”

  She harrumphed, sliding down in her seat and resting her forehead against the window. “I don’t want to go back to real life,” she whispered.

  “Neither do I.”

  She didn’t respond, and Isaac wanted to prod her, provoke her into saying something, anything, that would open the conversation for him to demand she see him again. Not ask. Demand. After all, she claimed he was always irritating her or pissing her off. Might as well keep to his record.

  But she said nothing, and he wasn’t sure how to play his cards.

  “What has you looking like you need a package of prunes and a magazine?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  “Perhaps,” he answered, just to annoy her.

  But she surprised him and, instead, laughed. “You’re far too predictable at times, Mr. Miller.”

  The pilot’s voice came over the intercom, interrupting the exchange with the announcement that they’d been cleared to land.

  Rachel gathered her few belongings and started rummaging for her cell phone.

  Isaac laid a hand over hers. “Have to wait until he clears us to use electronic devices. Cell phones can interfere with his communication from the tower.”

  She sighed rather dramatically. “Like I said, what good is being rich?”

  Isaac waved his hand like a game-show hostess presenting the interior of the jet as a prize. “Oh, it has its perks.”

  She chuffed out a short laugh. “Smart-ass.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Rachel?”

  She looked up at him, eyes wide and entirely receptive.

  “I don’t know how to do this.”

  Her face closed up tight. “I have a pretty good idea where this conversation is going, Isaac.”

  The skin on the back of his neck prickled. “Do you, then? By all means, enlighten me as to what’s going through my head.”

  “Despite the wonderful weekend, you’ve made it clear numerous times that you don’t do long-term relationships. Ever. So this is the point where you issue the gentle ‘it’s been fun’ parting line and offer to have your car service take me home.”

  His stomach had tied itself in multiple knots as she spoke, crowding his lungs so he couldn’t get a deep breath. “You’re wrong,” he finally responded.

  “Oh?” She looked out the window. “Then pardon me for borrowing your language, but ‘enlighten me.’”

  “Look at me, Rachel.” She didn’t turn, so he waited. “I’m not having this conversation with the back of your head.”

  She rounded on him, eyes dangerously narrowed. “Say what you need to say.”

  “It would serve you right if I let you ride home thinking whatever it is you’re thinking. But you’re so damn stubborn you probably wouldn’t take my call tomorrow.”

  She blinked owlishly. “Call? Tomorrow?”

  He closed the distance between them and kissed her, putting everything he had into the kiss—frustration, lust, fear, passion, longing and, most terrifying of all, hope.

  She responded without reservation, and he couldn’t help but release her seat belt and pull her into his lap.

  “We’re landing,” she murmured against his lips.

  “What the hell good is it being rich?” he replied.

  She laughed before returning to the kiss with such passion he couldn’t think of anything but the woman in his arms.

  The plane lurched to a stop at the gate, nearly unseating her.

  Isaac helped her to her feet and then rose to stand beside her. “Let me see you home.”

  “I’ll let you see me to a cab.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Rachel.”

  “Isaac.” She reached up and traced the line of his jaw. “If you see me home, I won’t be able to help myself. I’ll ask you to come up. You will. We’ll be up in a couple of hours doing what we do, and you’ll be there tomorrow morning when my alarm goes off far too early. You’ll ask me to call in again. I’ll be tempted. I can’t make senior attorney if I keep calling in just to get laid.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough.”

  “So see me to a cab and kiss me farewell with a promise to call me tomorrow?”

  “Promise.”

  They gathered their bags, and he didn’t balk at her insistence she carry her own belongings. The airport was far busier than he would have expected for a midnight arrival, but they managed to remain side by side and talk all the way to the cab lineup.

  She went to the front of the line, opened the cab’s rear door and turned to him.

  He kissed her with all the promise he had in him, let her get in the cab against his better judgment and watched her disappear in traffic.

  * * *

  The alarm went off way too early—confirmation that real life was back. Shuffling to her tiny kitchen, her eyes still working on getting with the concept of “being awake,” she put the coffee pod in the machine and pressed what she hoped was the brew button. Thank God for single-serve coffeemakers. No measuring. No adding water. No thinking. Very little waiting. Cup in hand only a few seconds later, she made her way back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to wake up. Jet lag was a very real thing and a bitch to boot.

  Reaching for her cell phone by rote, she was confused when it wasn’t on her bedside table, where it belonged.

  “What did I do with it?”

 
Forcing herself to get up, she went to where she’d literally dropped her bags last night, just inside the doorway. She hadn’t had the energy to put things away just then, so she’d left her bags where they fell with the promise to sort things out after work today. Then she’d gone to bed.

  Her cell had to be in the clutch she’d carried the night she met Isaac. She’d taken it to Ireland and then shoved the whole thing into the messenger bag she had purchased. Digging through the sparse but jumbled contents, she found the little evening bag wrapped inside the dress she’d worn Thursday night. She opened it and, sure enough, there was her phone.

  And it was as lifeless as Jimmy Hoffa.

  “Crap.” She should’ve plugged it in, but she hadn’t had messages when she checked it Friday night when they’d arrived in Ireland. And, if she was honest, she’d forgotten about it entirely after that.

  Taking the phone, messenger bag and her one small suitcase back to the bedroom, she plugged in the phone. It was so dead that it wouldn’t power up with the cord in place. The best it could do was show the blinking red battery icon. Served her right. She’d just let it charge while she showered and put herself together. That would let her check her messages on her way to work. She’d plug it in at her desk and let it fully charge there.

  Admit it. You want to know if Isaac has called.

  “Nope. Not going to worry about that.”

  Liar.

  “Perhaps,” she said, smiling. She’d never be able to hear that phrase without thinking of him.

  Rachel went through her morning routine, loaded her new messenger bag with her work items and then grabbed her phone. If she didn’t step it up, she was going to miss the bus to the subway and end up late.

  She had to run for the bus, but she made it. Taking the first seat she came to, she sank into it and retrieved her phone. Which she almost dropped when she powered up the screen.

  “What the hell?”

  Nineteen text messages.

  Nine missed calls.

  Four voice mails.

  That wasn’t Isaac’s style. She was sure of it. And that meant something had happened.

  Hands shaking, she had to try twice to enter her passcode. All she could think was that something had happened to her mom while she’d been off playing pretty princess with New York’s most sought-after bachelor. Or maybe it was her dad. Or it could be Casey. The phone couldn’t connect to service fast enough for her.

  She went to the texts first.

  There were eight from Casey. Her boss, Jim Franks, had sent six. Three had come from her mom. Then there were two from Isaac. Saving his for last, she tapped her boss’s name, scrolled to the first text sent Friday morning and started reading her way up.

  Friday, 11:05 a.m.

  Rachel, I know you called in asking to take a personal day, but I need you to come in. One of our high-profile clients is bringing a time-sensitive suit against a competitor. I need you to draft and file a cease and desist order and have the defendant served before the end of the day. I want you to take the lead on this case. It could be the one that gets you the senior attorney’s position you’ve been after.

  Friday, 11:59 a.m.

  Rachel, I need you to get back to me ASAP.

  Friday, 12:21 p.m.

  Rachel, I’ve had Tom start drafting the cease and desist order until you get here. I need you to come in and take point. I can’t have you out today.

  Friday, 2:05 p.m.

  Rachel, Tom has drafted the order. I’m going to go over what he has. The process server is already here and waiting. Get in here as soon as possible.

  Friday, 3:01 p.m.

  This is going to require you and your team to come in and work this weekend to have the full complaint filed first thing Monday morning. Just come in as soon as you can.

  Monday, 7:47 a.m.

  My office as soon as you’re here.

  With every message, the nausea roiling in her belly grew worse until, by his last text, she felt like her insides were being tossed about on brutal seas. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on the bus’s cold window and tried to slow her breathing.

  How the hell had she not seen these? Why hadn’t they come through?

  Hands shaking worse than ever, she went back to the phone and tapped on Casey’s messages.

  Friday, 11:12 a.m.

  Call me as soon as possible.

  Friday, 11:24 a.m.

  I’m not joking. Call me. Now. Don’t leave without talking to me.

  Friday, 11:49 a.m.

  For the love of God, do NOT get on that plane, Rachel. DO. NOT.

  Friday, 1:00 p.m.

  Why the hell aren’t you answering your phone????

  Friday, 4:44 p.m.

  Call me. NOW.

  Friday, 7:58 p.m.

  Just got home. Rach, not naming names here for good reason, but I’m telling you, extricate yourself from last night. Please. Trust me. Just do it. Catch commercial and come home no matter the cost.

  Saturday, 9:04 a.m.

  You didn’t turn on international calling, did you? Damn it. Your career’s in deep shit, my friend. Get your ass home.

  Sunday, 10:10 p.m.

  Worked all weekend trying to cover for you. Why? Because I love you and I’m worried sick. If you have any sense of self-preservation, call me before you go into the office. Jim is LIVID. Your ass is on the chopping block and you need to be prepared.

  She glanced at her mom’s messages. Just chatter. So she went to Isaac’s messages, her heart hammering so hard in her throat she wanted to puke.

  Monday, 3:42 a.m.

  At the risk of appearing pathetic and just a bit stalkerish, I miss you.

  Monday, 7:57 a.m.

  There are a great many things I could say, but I’ll only bother with this: I never would have taken you for such a power-hungry woman that you’d use your body as a weapon and another’s emotions as leverage to reach the next rung on the corporate ladder. Consider our affiliation terminated.

  Bone-numbing cold swept through Rachel’s body as she blindly grabbed for the stop cord. The driver pulled to the curb, and Rachel staggered off the bus, bent down and retched, but nothing came up. Stomach cramps kept her bent forward. She blamed the tears on the urge to vomit.

  Liar.

  Forcing herself to rise to her full height, her damnable mind running through a thousand different scenarios, she keyed her phone open, selected her list of recent calls and tapped on Casey’s name. The call went through, rang just once and her coworker and best friend in the world came on. “You on your way to the office?” Her somber tone said everything, cementing the weight of the situation and confirming Rachel’s fears.

  “Yeah.” Someone shouldered past Rachel with a sharp “watch it,” and she stepped out of the path of commuter foot traffic to lean against a storefront window. “How bad is it?”

  “Hold on.”

  Rachel heard Casey’s heels click across the floor. She stopped and told her paralegal to give her ten uninterrupted minutes. More heels on hardwood, this time approaching the phone, and then she was back.

  “It’s bad, Rach. Really bad. How far away are you?”

  “I’m going to spring for a cab in the hopes of getting there faster. So give me the short version.”

  “You’re familiar with the dating app Date Me.”

  “Sure. We’ve both used it.”

  “For years, it’s been the world’s number one dating app. Friday morning, the investment section of the paper reported on Thursday night’s test run for Power Match and publicly predicted that it would become the new go-to for professionals who wanted to essentially skip dating and go straight to wedding bells. The capital-investment firm run by one Isaac Miller released a statement that touted advancements over Date Me’s psychological matchmaking methods,
claiming to have built a better, more accurate system that will make Date Me’s app obsolete the moment Power Match goes live.”

  “Sounds like a standard marketing ploy to generate interest.”

  “It would have been...if the client hadn’t scooped Date Me’s lead psychologist—the same psychologist who developed Date Me’s proprietary questionnaires that determine the most effective means of matching couples. Rach, she had a watertight noncompete in place when she left. No working for any company that could be considered competition for two years. And no using, developing or in any way modifying software deemed proprietary for five years from the date of separation.”

  “Oh, shit.” She couldn’t tell Casey what she knew. Not without making her culpable should the firm’s management or, worse, founding partners question her. So she swallowed the urge to tell what she knew and, instead, listened.

  “It gets better.” Casey lowered her voice. “She only left nine months ago and Date Me is claiming she didn’t give them notice as per her contract. She just packed up and left. They found out, through the news report, about her alleged improvements to the selection software she originally created for Date Me, and they’re claiming that their primary global competitor is not only using their proprietary software, but also trying to damage Date Me’s market share, investment security, client retention—the list goes on. Their legal department outsourced this case to us Friday morning. They asked us to file an immediate injunction to stop all work on Power Match’s development and release, enforce the noncompete for the psychologist and seek damages from both the developer and the capital-investment firm funding this project. You know who Caffeinated Brainiacs obtained capital funding from, Rachel.”

  Casey didn’t say his name. She didn’t have to.

  The company was Quantum Ventures.

  The CEO was Isaac Miller.

  Rachel maneuvered through foot traffic to the curb and hailed a cab. “Does Jim know where I was?” she asked as a cab pulled up. She slipped inside and slammed the door at the same time she gave the driver her destination.

  “I don’t think so. You didn’t tell anyone but me where you went, did you?” Casey paused; Rachel waited. “And you didn’t tell anyone else who you were with?”