by Holly Rayner
The Greek Billionaire’s Marriage Matchmaker
By Holly Rayner
Copyright 2016 by Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Table Of Contents:
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
ONE
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Zoey Forde sat sullenly in her seat in the badly-lit subway car, squeezed horribly by the rather rotund gentleman sitting beside her. A large crowd of people had shoved their way on board at the last stop, and were jostling for space like blocks in a badly-played game of Tetris. The armrest was beginning to bite into her leg, but she didn’t complain—she knew she was lucky to be sitting at all. She tried to enjoy it while it lasted; she was sure she wouldn’t be so lucky when she had to change trains.
Twenty minutes had passed since the dark-haired beauty had left her Brooklyn apartment. She had not been in a particularly sunny mood then, but now, tucked in among a forest of bodies, she was perfectly miserable.
There has to be an easier way! she thought to herself, before she remembered the alternative to the underground sardine can was the New York traffic. The subway might have been bad, but that was a fate worse than death.
Zoey swore quietly, but not quietly enough.
“Hey, lady! Watch your language! There’s kids around here!”
She sighed deeply, while several people laughed. It wasn’t even nine in the morning, but a ten-year-old was already telling her off.
She ignored the kid who’d reprimanded her, as well as the guy standing to her right, who kept tossing creepy glances in her direction. Zoey kept an eye on him. She carried pepper spray in her purse, and she was not afraid to use it.
“And there’re twenty more minutes of this, at least,” she murmured, frowning at the wrinkles the close quarters were putting in her cream business suit.
Desperately seeking a distraction, Zoey fished her smartphone out of her purse, and went straight to her favorite news site.
The first article she saw was about some Hollywood mogul who was producing a show his girlfriend had come up with. Zoey shook her head at that, but tried not to dismiss the girl’s talents just because she was sleeping with her producer. The next story she came to was about a senator in Washington, DC who was resigning because of a sex scandal. That seemed to happen so often that Zoey wondered how the entire Congress wasn’t female by now. Finally, her eyes alighted on a story that instantly caught her attention.
“Former actress Emma Knightly, 25, famous for her show-stealing performances in the Marble House trilogy, today announced she is divorcing 55-year-old millionaire fast fashion designer Eddie Brooks Jr. The couple were married on April 7, 2015, just a year and two days ago. Sources close to Ms. Knightly tell us the marriage broke down almost immediately.”
Zoey didn’t bother to finish the article, looking instead for an e-book to read, hopelessness welling in her veins. She clearly remembered the day the Knightly woman had stepped foot in her mother’s agency—no one that had been there would ever forget it. She had glided in, wearing the long white satin dress of the 1940s songstress she had made famous in her Marble House movies. Her bleach-blonde hair was cut short, and she wore what looked like a diamond tiara. She moved her thin white limbs in imitation of a queen, and pointing regally at the secretary, demanded to be announced.
“This is supposedly the city’s premier matchmaking service,” she had started in arrogant tones, “but I doubt you’ll be able to find someone worthy of a date with me. I very nearly earned an Academy Award, after all…”
Emma had continued her boasting until Zoey’s mother, Melinda Forde, swept into the elegant reception area. Feeling something very much like disgust, Zoey saw her mother’s ersatz smile and heard her rolling, sycophantic, voice.
“Welcome to Melinda Forde Singles, my dear. Please allow me to say that your performance in Marble House moved myself and my daughter to tears. ‘Jenifer Swan’s brief and tragic music career is portrayed to perfection by Ms. Knightly’,” she said, quoting a review she had read in the Times. “I just hope our agency can perform as well for you as you have for your adoring public. A client like you deserves only our finest, most experienced matchmaker.” So saying, Melinda had taken the former actress back to Zoey’s stylish, well-appointed rear office.
The train came to a halt, and Zoey inwardly celebrated as the rotund man saw his stop and left the train. She swore in her head when that gentleman was replaced by a fossil of a woman that smelled strongly of liniment.
Zoey had settled on reading A Study in Scarlet, but between the smell and her thoughts, she was finding it hard to concentrate. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself sitting at her desk. Emma Knightly sat across from her, sipping a glass of complimentary champagne. Zoey was asking the actress a series of question and plugging her curt responses into her computer. The answers, and Emma’s dismissive nature, were grinding her nerves, but Zoey kept her composure. That was her job, after all. Within five minutes, it was perfectly clear what Emma wanted: a wealthy man who would be mesmerized by her beauty and put his fortunes at her command. It was obvious Emma didn’t care about love in the slightest, and the moment she realized that, Zoey knew she should have sent the woman away, or at least tried to get her to consider something other than her materialistic desires, but even back then, Zoey had known there was precious little point.
Zoey had long ago learned that trying to argue with customers was more trouble than it was worth. She’d scanned the system until her eyes landed on Edward Alva Brooks Jr., a man that fit the bill perfectly. She was sure the fifty-five-year-old would be attracted to Emma’s body, and that Emma would be attracted to his money. They had nothing in common, no shared values, nothing two people could build a lasting relationship on, but Zoey didn’t argue. She simply made the match.
She forced herself to keep reading her Sherlock Holmes mystery. She knew it was the only relief she was going to have for several hours. In a few moments she would transfer to another train, which would take her the rest of the way to the Manhattan offices of her mother’s relationship services agency. From the moment she arrived until four-thirty that afternoon, Zoey would be tasked with ignoring her own emotions, lying to people, and above all, turning a profit.
All day long, she would listen to women—almost always former actresses and models—complain about the men that had formerly been in their lives. How they neglected them, how they lied and cheated, how they never earned enough money, and on and on. Men came though Melinda Forde’s doors as well, with complaints of draconian women, gold diggers, and unfaithful lovers. Each of these people would tel
l Zoey they were looking for true love, but when she questioned them, she always found that was the last thing they sought. And on it would go, hour after hour, until the hypocrisy became a physical weight upon her heart. Each day, it became harder and harder to suffer through, and Zoey was sure that soon, quite soon the way things were going, something in her mind was going to snap.
A sudden thought cut through her misery like a laser, and all at once, Zoey felt a small welling of hope within her. She only had to make it to the end of the day, and then something wonderful would happen, because for the first time in forever, she had a date of her own that evening. She’d had to sneak behind her mother’s back and use the Ember dating app to accomplish that much, but she felt that the ends justified the means.
The guy she would be meeting, Blake Howard, didn’t seem obsessed with hooking up, and it was obvious to Zoey that he’d taken the unusual step of actually reading her profile before he messaged her. None of his messages went along the usual line of Ember conversations, which generally boiled down to “when can we hook up?” He was handsome, intelligent, and soft-spoken, but a streak of mischief ran through him that Zoey had to admit she found exciting. She had enjoyed every one of their conversations, and was really looking forward to finally meeting him.
“Maybe all of this bullshit has a silver lining,” she murmured to herself, and the fossil sitting beside her gave her a strange look.
TWO
Even after all the time she’d spent on the train, Zoey still had six blocks to walk before she reached her mother’s building. The creepy guy from the subway could have been trying to follow her surreptitiously, so she walked directly toward the first NYPD officer she saw. He broke off his pursuit, and Zoey pointed him out to the police, before heading toward the miserable day that waited for her. She tried to focus her mind on her upcoming date, and cling to the tiny bit of hope it afforded her.
Eventually, she arrived at a block that was dripping with affluence. Every building featured impressive aesthetic touches; elegant hanging plants and outdoor torches. Each building had a clean, modern look that was somehow appealing, despite the fact that everything inside them was ungodly expensive. Zoey glanced at a fashion accessories store across the street from her workplace, wincing as she remembered, from personal reconnaissance, that the cheapest thing in there was priced at eighteen hundred dollars.
Zoey turned to face Melinda Forde Singles, a striking building fronted with gold-flecked black marble. The name was written in letters of burnished gold above the brass-handled glass doors. Zoey let herself in, determined to push through the day as fast as possible.
Inside, the agency looked a lot like the lobby of a boutique hotel. An intricately-patterned carpet, handmade by an association of women in Afghanistan, covered the floor along one wall. Generally, even the most conceited of Melinda’s customers couldn’t help commenting on its beautiful design, and as she passed it now, Zoey could see why.
On top of the carpet was a long white sofa that customers regularly reported was unbelievably comfortable. Round, glass end tables sat on either side of the sofa. These bore gorgeous porcelain lamps that shimmered in the artificial light they produced. A glass table was just in front of the sofa, standing on curved, brass feet.
The entire space gave an impression of sophistication, and even Zoey, who knew that an impression was all it was, had to resist being sucked in by everything. Despite the marble-topped receptionist’s desk and the oak-paneled walls, she knew she was walking toward her own little prison.
Along the rear wall, the paneling gave way to a frosted glass door with golden block letters placed at eye level. “Zoey Amelia Forde,” they proclaimed. “Senior Relationship Services Expert.” The title sounded official enough, but Zoey knew it was mostly bullshit.
She walked into her office and booted up her laptop, determined to get through her personal emails before her mother came through to spy on her.
Zoey’s computer sat on a smaller writing desk that was built into an elaborate wall unit made of handsome ebony wood. The cabinet doors were arched at the top, and a metal that looked like silver made lace patterns across the glass. Leather-bound books and dozens of curios filled the cabinets in neat arrangements. Very few of them actually belonged to Zoey, however—most of the books and trinkets were her mother’s idea of creating atmosphere.
She quickly logged in to her email account and began sifting through her inbox. She was happy to see a message from Blake confirming their date that evening. With a small smile she skimmed through the other emails, a mixture of thank you notes from her previous clients, charity appeals, and sales alerts from stores she had shopped at recently. She archived some of the messages and spent a few minutes replying to others until a sharp series of knocks rang out against the wooden frame of the door.
Before Zoey could say anything in response, the door swung open to reveal her mother.
Melinda Forde still looked every bit the striking beauty queen she had been two decades ago. Her long, jet-black hair shone under the light. Her eyes were intense, radiating a fierce pride. The deep, golden-brown irises always made Zoey think of semiprecious stones. Her thin, beautifully-angled face was nearly flawless, with only a few frown lines and a tiny bit of puffiness under the eyes. In the flowing, crimson dress she was wearing, she looked like nothing less than royalty.
“Good morning, Zoey dear,” she said, as Zoey guiltily clicked away from her inbox. “I thought I would bring your first client of today through personally. You’ll find the gentleman listed in the registry. Over the past few years, he has become something of a leader in his field, and I’ve assured him that, as our finest expert, you will be best placed to address his needs.”
With that, Melinda turned to face someone standing in the corridor. “I hope you have a pleasant day,” she said as she swept back through the door.
By this time, Zoey had turned to her office desk and the company PC perched upon it. Scanning the registry, she saw that her first client that day was a man called Alexis Manolas.
The gentleman that entered was nearly six feet tall and wore a light tan. His black hair was slicked back and crowned a strong face that looked at once rugged and spangled with boyish charm. He wore slacks, a black turtleneck, and a brown jacket through which Zoey could easily spot a toned midsection.
Not bad at all, she thought appreciatively as he shut the door and took a seat on the black leather ottoman angled in front of her desk.
Under Zoey’s desk, tucked out of sight, was a mini refrigerator. Reaching into this, she produced a chilled glass of champagne.
“A complimentary glass of champagne, Mr. Zakiridis?” she asked, holding it out to him.
He accepted the offering with a small laugh. “I suppose the assumed name was pointless. I apologize for the deception, but the Post and the Daily News would have had a field day if they found out I was here.”
“You can rely on our complete discretion,” Zoey replied, extending her hand, “Welcome to Melinda Forde, Mr. Zakiridis.”
The man claiming to be Alexis Manolas was, in fact, Mr. Stelios Zakiridis, a property magnate who had emigrated from Greece as a child. Around eight years ago, as best as Zoey could remember, he had taken over his family’s business, the Dolphin Realty Group, and in his short tenure as CEO, had overseen unprecedented growth, making him one of New York’s youngest billionaires.
“When there are billboards with your face on them all over the city, you need more than a name to disguise your identity,” Zoey said with a smile.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right about that,” Stelios answered mirthfully. “I’m afraid your mother failed to explain how this process works.”
“Why don’t you begin by telling me what you’re looking for in a partner?”
“Well, I’ve just turned thirty-two, so I feel I’m getting older, and when I think about it, I begin to question what I’ve been doing all this time. I’ve spent so much time in the salt mines that it didn’t occur
to me until recently that I’d like to have someone to share my life with. I’d like to meet an intelligent woman with a winning personality who will appreciate me for who I really am.”
Boy, are you ever in the wrong place, Zoey thought, but she didn’t allow the smile she was wearing to waver.
Her mother’s agency catered specifically to the wealthy, and Zoey was used to sitting across from millionaires on a daily basis. Even by Melinda Forde standards, however, Stelios was a huge client—one that could take the entire agency to new heights, if handled correctly. Zoey had to ignore the knot that had formed in her stomach at hearing Stelios speak so plainly about his needs. She knew that very soon she would have to saddle him with one of the women on her list, any one of whom could quite easily ruin his life and shatter his faith in love.
“That’s a very nice sentiment, Mr. Zakiridis,” she said with fake perkiness. “I’d like to ask you a few questions so I can build a profile for you. That way, through a combination of experience, and our patented algorithm, I can match you with someone who will fit your needs exactly.”
