Читать книгу Captivated By The Tycoon - Anna DePalo - Страница 7

It was just business and dinner. At least that’s what Lauren told herself. In fact, however, this practice dinner was unlike any other she’d been on.

Back at her initial meeting with Matt in her office, she’d mentioned she sometimes helped her clients with their conversation skills. She’d almost forgotten the fact…until Matt had decided to sign himself up.

Given how she’d barely survived their shopping outing last weekend, she’d approached tonight with not a little trepidation.

She’d been unable to stop thinking about Matt and how he’d looked on Saturday. The way he’d filled a pair of Levi’s…the way his lean muscles had appeared under a smooth T-shirt…the way her pulse had raced in response.

Getting dressed for dinner had been its own special torture. She’d waffled over what to wear.

She had a set repertoire for business meals—clothes that were chic but not too sexy. But hours ago, she’d decided nothing in her closet conveyed the right tone.

She’d finally settled on a wrap dress in a midnight color with three-quarter-length sleeves. She’d kept her hair loose and put on a pair of chandelier earrings. She’d finished off with black pumps.

Sure, it wasn’t her usual attire. It was more elegant cocktail party than expensive dinner. Still, her clothes were her armor, and she had to come equipped to handle the client she was seeing—in this case, two-hundred-plus pounds of high- powered male testosterone.

Now they sat facing each other, like two opponents in the centuries-old battle of the sexes, their weapons cutlery, wine goblets and as much repartee as she could stomach over an elegant dinner of lobster panzerotti.

They made small talk about their families, and they’d just started a conversation about the local theater scene when, with an apologetic look, Matt reached into his pocket. “I’m getting a call.”

He flipped open the phone. “Hello.”

Matt’s eyes stayed on hers while he listened.

Despite knowing his mind was elsewhere, Lauren felt tingling awareness dance along her nerve endings, just as it had done throughout dinner. Still, somewhat surprisingly, she’d found herself enjoying their conversation.

She watched as Matt said, “Right, okay.”

He flipped the phone closed and placed his table napkin to the side of his plate, his mouth set in a firm line. “I’ve got to take this.”

He got up, and she was distracted from replying by the waiter’s arrival to refill their wineglasses.

Ten minutes later, he was back.

As he sat down, she said, “Definitely a no-no.”

“Don’t tell me,” he said with mock warning.

“No cell phone calls. It gives the impression—”

“I know. It gives the impression I work for my money.”

“No, that you’re a workaholic.”

He looked exasperated. “It’s a Tuesday night.”

“Turn off the phone,” she said firmly. “Particularly on the first date.”

“This isn’t a real date.”

His response stung, even though he’d spoken the truth, and she worried again about her difficulty in keeping a professional distance.

Steering the conversation to safer waters, she said, “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your job?”

He raised a brow. “I thought I was supposed to be downplaying the fact that work is my mistress?”

“This isn’t a real date, remember?” she echoed, determined this time to remember the fact herself. “Besides, you need to practice how to leverage your job for maximum appeal on your real dates.”

“Leverage my job for maximum appeal? Is that matchmaker talk?”

“No, that’s what I call the Fletcher Method speaking.”

“How about letting my sizable cash flow speak for itself?” he quipped.

“Is that how an accountant talks dirty?” she parried.

He chuckled. “All right, I’ll play nice.”

Done with his food, he sat back and toyed with the stem of his wineglass.

She tore her mind away from thoughts of his firm, squareish, capable-looking hands.

“You’re the Chief Financial Officer of Whittaker Enterprises,” she began.

He gave a brief nod. “I’m the numbers guy.”

“But never boring,” she supplied.

“Don’t get me started on cash-based versus accrual accounting,” he said with dire warning.

“Definitely not something to get into on a first date. That is, unless she’s a number cruncher herself.” She added smoothly, “So what does a CFO do exactly?”

He frowned. “What sorts of dates are you planning to set me up with? I’m not going to have the patience to deal with a clueless beauty queen.”

“Humor me.”

He sighed. “I provide the financial strategy for Whittaker Enterprises. We’re a family-owned conglomerate with technology and real estate interests.”

“I’ve read about you in the business section of the papers.”

“Have you?” he murmured.

She got the impression he was intrigued by the fact, and wondered whether she’d revealed too much.

In Boston, the Whittakers and their family-run company were omnipresent. Over the years, she’d been unable to resist reading the articles about Matt. He’d remained single, playing the field, keeping mum about his private life, and at the same time, cutting a wide swath across the corporate landscape.

“Day to day,” he went on, “I oversee the budget process and head up internal departments at Whittaker Enterprises, including administration and information technology.”

“My eyes haven’t glazed over yet.”

His lips quirked up. “I romance numbers, and lust after a positive bottom line.”

“Very funny.”

“I get upset when figures don’t balance, and nothing turns me on like a positive account.”

“See?” she said encouragingly. “You can make this interesting.”

“That’s the day job. I moonlight investing in new companies.”

She raised her brows. “You’re a venture capitalist?”

“I’m an angel, sweetheart,” he said, and the look he gave her was devilish.

Her mind tripped over his casual use of the endearment, even as she reminded herself again that their date wasn’t real. Still, this Matthew Whittaker was a lot more seductive than the one she remembered from five years ago.

“I give seed money before venture capitalists get involved. We’re called angels in the investment world.”

“I see.”

“The call I got earlier was about a company I’m thinking of investing in.”

At her questioning look, he supplied, “The company founder is having trouble ceding control to professional management.”

“Interesting.”

He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers. “Tonight, though, all I’m interested in is investing in you.”

As a come-on line, it was inventive and not half-bad.

After a moment, his eyes danced. “How’m I doing?”

“Not bad.” She cleared her throat and tried to clear her mind. She really had to stay on topic. “We should discuss how you’re going to describe yourself to a real date.”

“Tell me more about the Fletcher Method,” he countered.

“It’s a little like detox. It’s boot camp for entry into long-term commitment.”

“By reprogramming men?”

“Both sides,” she insisted. “It tries to clue in both parties about the expectations of the other side.”

“In other words, remember Valentine’s Day, her birthday and your anniversary.”

“That’s right, because, you know, there’s nothing that says ‘I love you’ like a Valentine’s Day card sent overnight express by your secretary.”

He smiled. “Okay, I’ll file that tip away. No more urgent deliveries arranged by the secretary.”

“That’s a start. Many men wake up well into their marriages scratching their heads and saying, ‘What did I do wrong?’ They don’t have a clue as to why the woman is upset. I don’t just want my clients to find a match, I want them to find a lasting match.”

He contemplated her for a moment. “Matchmaking is a curious field for you to go into.”

“You mean because I’ve had such bad luck in love myself?” She put into words what he’d left unstated.

He inclined his head.

“Not so curious. I have no intention of taking the plunge myself anytime soon.”

“A bit cynical for a matchmaker, aren’t you?”

“I suppose it’s easy for you—or anyone—to think that, since I was stood up at the altar, but it’s far from the truth.”

The times any of her clients had bothered to delve into her past or had recognized her as Parker’s jilted bride, she’d had the same answer at the ready. After all, no one wanted to take advice from a matchmaker who was unlucky in love.

In fact, the effects of a powerful cocktail of pain, humiliation and, yes, seething anger had worn off long ago. These days, she was on an even keel—except when her past came back to visit her, especially in the form of an enigmatic corporate tycoon.

Matt looked at her quizzically. “Have you ever thought maybe not getting married to Parker was for the best?”