This was not what I needed to hear.
“He’s not that handsome.” Denial was strong in me.
Lottie raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t say he was. He has charisma, that’s what I said. Different thing. And much more dangerous. As you know full well.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Charisma was what made for winning politicians and dazzling superstars.
“It’s more than his looks and money that make him attractive, honey. He has that something-something that just makes him hot.” Lottie laughed. “Some men just have sex appeal.”
I pursed my mouth to one side and put another black mark on my mental compatibility chart with Lazer. How many times had I told clients that averagely attractive spouses were the best kinds? They were usually less vain, less full of themselves than the beautiful people. Kinder. More thoughtful. And it could get damn tiring when everyone was always flirting and hitting on your spouse. It was an insecurity breeding ground.
If you can’t live with that kind of pressure, if you aren’t secure to the core of your being, then give up on the notion of marrying the heartthrob and go for the good guy that’s usually overlooked. Like Cam, Austin, Jeremy, or Dylan. Substance over outward appearance had long been my motto.
Sadly, it was just another piece of good advice I was ignoring.
* * *
Lazer
Romantic breakfasts in the woods hadn’t worn Ashley down. Not even paired with sharing a secret and playing on her sympathies for the poor, young, geeky me. Saving her from a rogue moose hadn’t won me enough points to score. I was burning with desire. And not about to give up. The game only got more interesting.
I introduced Ashley and Lottie to Peter, our recruiting specialist, before our ten a.m. meeting. They seemed to hit it off. As the three of us and the guys sat around a table watching the presentation from the agency, I anticipated my next move on Ashley. Women loved magic. I was going to give her some.
I’d hinted to her that I had the inside scoop on the direction the agency was going with naming and branding. I had more than that. I’d had a sneak peek at the three top contenders. A little later, I was going to play clairvoyant. I’d had some swag made up for each concept to impress Ashley with later. In the meantime, I was hoping the team went with my favorite.
I watched their reactions as the agency presented each concept, beginning with my least favorite and ending with the one I wanted. My favorite name, and corresponding concept, Pair Us, won with unanimous approval. Even the guys were excited. It appealed to them as not being too girly and cheesy lovey-dovey. Being engineers and coders, the straightforward meaning of it sold them. Pair Us because of the way it sounded like the City of Love, and suited both sides of the business so well. Pair us, pair two people. Pair us, a person and a company with a job.
The concept was simple. The first branch would be Pair Us on Lake Union, with later branches to follow when we decided to franchise. Our signature gimmick for the matchmaking side would be a custom-made lovelock. When a couple was happily paired, they’d lock it on a bridge sculpture in the lobby of our building, like the lovelocks on bridges in Paris. This would serve a twofold purpose. One, it was fantastic visual evidence of our success. And two, it would make a beautiful piece of art that was added to by clients and a romantic place they could come to remember their happy beginning.
Ashley’s eyes lit up when the agency presented the concept, along with the branding, including a logo, the font that would be used on all correspondence, and a mockup of a proposed website.
As the meeting broke up, Ashley reminded the guys and me of our afternoon appointments with her. “As our first clients, you gentlemen will be the first to go through the Pair Us program.” Her face lit up. “Pair Us! I love saying that. Such a great name.
“Since signing the deal, Lottie and I have been working to coalesce my matchmaking techniques into a comprehensive program that can be franchised.” She smiled at all of us. “I’m looking forward to chatting with each of you.”
* * *
Ashley
Lunch was fantastic. We ate by the pool. Another delicious spread. The agency people stayed. I got a chance to get to know them and Peter better. I liked them all, especially Peter, who had a sense of humor and a passion for getting people into jobs they’d love and thrive at.
I had the sense that one of the agency women had slept with Lazer and would love to again, given the chance. I shouldn’t have felt so jealous over it, but I did. Worse, I was second-guessing myself. Should I have made love with Lazer in the woods? If I didn’t give him what he wanted, would she? Would I lose him?
Would that be so terrible?
Maybe we were better off as business partners.
You know better! my rational side screamed at me. You’re not the only matchmaker to recommend waiting if you want a committed relationship.
Facts, data, and experience were on my side. But damn, emotionally, I wanted to give in to what I knew was the wrong thing in this situation. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe a fling was all I needed. Just call me Miss Waffler.
Lazer was my first appointment after lunch. I met with him in his private study while the guys met in the conference room to hash out details about the app. I would have loved to sit outside for the meeting. But the private nature of the discussion dictated a closed room. Meeting in Lazer’s study with me in the leadership position set up an odd dynamic. I was an interloper here, a guest. And yet I was taking charge.
We’d been polite, but reserved and slightly distant at lunch. For my part, I was simply trying to put a damper on the flames of desire. A slow burn suited my purposes better. I had no idea what he was feeling.
Lazer’s office had two sofas and a two plush chairs in a U-shaped seating area, with an ottoman that doubled as a coffee table in the middle. Funnily, there was a stuffed moose head hanging over the fireplace.
I took a seat at the end of one sofa. Lazer sat on the other so that we were kitty-corner to each other.
I pointed to the moose head. “I thought you weren’t a hunter?”
He smiled. “I’m not. That was a gift from one of the other billionaires in EIEIO. It’s a bit of a joke.”
“Oh, right. Your version of the Bohemian Grove. They’re hunters, are they?”
He nodded. “Some of them. Some of them just have a wicked sense of humor.”
I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous about this process. Finding out about a man I’d like a relationship with like this seemed like cheating. Yet wasn’t all fair in love and war?
“The first step in my process is interviewing you, as the client, and, more deviously, our billionaire bait—”
“Is this really necessary?”
“Of course it is,” I said, putting on my professional persona. “You need to see how the process works firsthand. That’s just smart business. I don’t have to tell you how much we’re counting on your celebrity to bring in business and women for the match pool.”
“No pressure,” he said, his tone light and amused, like always.
“This venture was your idea.”
He shrugged. “Are you going to do your physical assessment of me first?”
I frowned, momentarily confused. “What?”
“I read your book,” he said. “It’s in there. You like to do an assessment of each new client and give them areas where they can improve.”
“I don’t think you have any problems in that area. You’re Seattle’s hottest bachelor.”
“Are you saying I’m flawless?”
“I wouldn’t go that far—”
He grinned. “Then I do have flaws. Just like the guys in your book, I’m blind to them. What can I improve on?” He leaned toward me. “Take a good look.”
Damn, now my pulse was racing. “Stop teasing.”
He batted his eyes at me and smiled so I could see his teeth. “Teeth white enough? Hair cut in the right style? You’re going to give the guys tips. If we’re going to go through thi
s charade, I want the full treatment.”
“You’re not a paying customer.”
“But I am your most-high profile client.”
I shook my head. “Fine. I give up.” I shrugged and leaned even closer to him. “Your eyes are a delicious brown.”
I imagined kissing him.
“Your jaw line is square and firm. Your haircut is perfect for your bone structure and the shape of your face. Your teeth are straight and white. Your breath is fresh.”
I put my hands on each of his shoulders and ran them along them, tugging gently at the shoulder seams as I imagined getting him out of that shirt and climbing into his lap.
“The fit of your shirt”—I dropped my gaze lower—“and shorts is just right.” Too right. Too revealing.
I was practically in his lap. In my mind, I slipped out of my clothes, unzipped those shorts…
I bent my head over his neck and inhaled, resisting the urge to kiss and suck it. “Your cologne would give any women with a sense of smell ideas of sex,” I whispered in his ear.
My breathing had gone shallow. I tried not to tremble. Being this close, imagining all the things I’d like to do with him, and teasing and flirting with him like this was dangerous business.
When I looked into his eyes again, they were dark, his pupils large. He was feeling it, too.
I cupped his cheek and ran my hand over the few days’ growth of beard. “Your beard is soft and well conditioned. Nicely shaped. You use a number two comb on your beard trimmer?”
“Very good,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“I know my grooming products.”
Why was my voice so soft and hoarse? My lips were too close to his. It would have been so easy to kiss him and just let go.
The air crackled with the chemistry between us. If I had been in a romance novel, I would have said my bosom was gently heaving. I should have stopped flirting with him. I really should have. Before I crossed the point of no return.
I ran my fingers over his smoothly shaved upper cheeks. Soft as a baby’s. There was something incredibly sexy about freshly shaved faces. A complex combination of masculinity and vulnerability.
When I moved on to his neck, gently stroking it, his Adam’s apple bobbed, but he sat perfectly still. I wondered if he was imagining the same things I was, and how he was keeping his hands to himself.
“Your beard is also impressively shaped. Too much neck hair is a problem I often have to correct.” I paused, my fingers stilling. Thankfully I’d found something. “But you’ve irritated your neck. Whatever product you’re using—shaving cream or aftershave—isn’t the right one for you. I can recommend something for sensitive skin.”
I pulled away abruptly, before I broke my own rule and did something I’d regret. I sat well back in my space on my sofa and smiled at him, trying not to let him see how rattled I was. Or how fast I was breathing.
“There’s your flaw.” I fought to keep my voice from shaking. “And the fix. Am I good or what?”
He looked startled I’d actually found something. Clearly he’d been teasing me. He had the best stylists available to him. Probably a personal shopper. And maybe he was surprised, too, that I’d pulled away like that just at the point where it had seemed I would slide into his lap and kiss him. Maybe thoughts of doing it on the sofa had filled his mind as completely as they had mine. He couldn’t have been as startled as I was that I’d had enough willpower to stick to my plan.
“We’ll see how good you are after I’ve tried it and I decide whether it works or not.”
I smiled. “You’re just surprised I found a flaw. You didn’t think I would. Arrogance!” I laughed.
“Not really.” He shrugged. “I’ve been made over a time or two. If you’d found something really egregious, I’d have to fire a few people and ask for my money back. As it is, my skincare specialist is in trouble.”
“You are so metro,” I said. But he wasn’t, really. “Shall we move on with this interview and get back to business? I need information about your likes and dislikes in women so I can screen my current pool of matches to find women who are compatible with you and get you out on the dating scene.
“We need to build a profile of your ideal woman before we can start our PR campaign. Aren’t we talking to the PR firm tomorrow?”
He nodded. “We are. But I still think this is overkill. Just make me some fake matches and be done with it.”
I shook my head. “Aren’t you the one who just insisted you get the full treatment?” I laughed shakily. “I think it’s important for you to actually go through the process so that: A, you understand the business from the client side, B, understand how I work, and C, are familiar with the matchmaking process so that you can speak intelligently and authentically about it in interviews, of which I hope there will be many. And—where am I?”
“D, I believe.” He wore an adorably sexy smirk.
I took a deep breath. “Oh. Yes. Exactly. D. And D, you just might learn something about yourself and which kind of woman you prefer.”
He shook his head. “I like all women.”
“I doubt that.” I shot him my skeptical look.
“I do.” He nodded emphatically.
“Equally?” I had him on the ropes. “Witchy women? Bitchy women? Stupid women with yellowing teeth and bad breath—”
He held up his hands. “All right. I give up. You got me. Maybe not equally.”
“Good. Now that we’ve settled that and gotten the truth out of you, we can get down to work and find out what kind of woman you like most.
“Every woman is unique, of course. And all generalizations are false. But…” I held up a finger. “I’ve loosely grouped women into several broad categories that I find men generally prefer—the cute and perky cheerleader type, the girl next door, the sexpot—”
He leered at me.
“Stop that!” I pointed at him and shook my head. “Let’s not be too shallow.”
He laughed. “Got it. Just shallow enough. Go on.”
I cleared my throat. “As I was saying, the sexpot, the exotic, and the intellectual.” I watched him closely to see if he scoffed at the last one.
Instead, he appeared to be thinking.
“Which one do you think most of my wealthy clients prefer?” I asked.
“If I’d known there was going to be a test, I would have studied.” He didn’t look like he was taking this seriously at all.
I skewered him with a look.
He laughed.
“Well?” I tapped my fingers on the arm of the sofa in a blatant show of impatience. It was a test to see how he acted under pressure. I wanted an authentic answer from him. “Think carefully before you answer. I’ll give you a hint: this type of woman is the hardest for me to find.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t need the hint, but thanks. The question is easy—the intellectual.”
My mouth nearly fell wide open. I caught my jaw from hitting the floor just in time. Given all the mythology about wealthy men wanting trophy wives, most people guessed the sexpot.
He laughed again, deeply. “I got the right answer! You didn’t expect it, did you?”
I’d written a book on matchmaking. But I hadn’t discussed this topic. “Where’s your cheat sheet?” I held my hand out for it like a stern schoolteacher.
His eyes twinkled. “No cheating necessary. All I had to do was think of my friends. Intelligence is hot in a woman. What man wouldn’t fall for a woman who can banter wittily? Who’s well read and well versed?
“Beauty fades; everyone knows that. The truth is, beauty fading is a given. Sometimes the mind fails. But not necessarily. And one other thing is absolutely certain: beauty fades faster than wit. If a man wants a long-term relationship with a woman, it’s much smarter for him to pick his intellectual match. And someone who makes him laugh.”
My heart, which was already soft for him, became that much mushier. “Very wise.”
He laughed again. “You’re
measuring your words. It’s written all over your face. What you want to say is that it’s very mature, very non-Neanderthal of me. You’re surprised at how deep and non-superficial I am.”
“Your words…” I said. But he was dead on. In a way. “So if you know the right answer, why do you usually go for the sexpots, the sirens, the vixens? A casual perusal of your dating history makes it pretty clear what kind of woman you prefer.”
To my surprise, he shrugged, looking amused. “That’s easy. Social pressure. You wouldn’t believe the pressure we billionaires are under to date the beautiful women—models, actresses, singers.
“The locker room talk at the club is never about the intellectual one of the guys just banged. When was the last time you saw the gossip rags gush about a billionaire dating a Nobel Prize winner? An important circuit judge? Or a scientist who’s just found a cure for a horrible disease? Unless she’s also smoking hot. And then the intellectual side of her is downplayed, a footnote to her beauty.”
I didn’t reply.
“It’s like high school on a grander scale. The popular guys only date the popular girls. The sexpots are the popular girls. Billionaires can get them.” It was almost like he was speaking tongue-in-cheek.
Unfortunately, there was a lot of truth in what he said.
“Not all billionaires,” I countered. “Bill Gates didn’t marry a supermodel. He married an intelligent woman he worked with at Microsoft.”
“That was ages ago. I respect him for it. If I ever marry, I’ll marry who I want to. And not give a damn if she’s a supermodel, as long as I think she’s hot.”
Well, at least I had some sort of chance.
Lazer paused, studying me closely. “What kind of woman are you?”
“I’m not the subject of this matchmaking session,” I said as I picked up my laptop from the ottoman. “What kind of woman I see myself as makes no difference.”
There was no way now that I was telling him that I saw myself as an intellectual. “The main thing is to figure what kind of a woman you want. I take it you’d like an intellectual?”
Harte Strings: The Billionaire Matchmaker, Part Two Page 10
