Читать книгу Seducing The Matchmaker - Joanne Rock - Страница 13

IN THE PARKING LOT OF THE Normandy Farm Hotel, Stacy Goodwell tried to say good-night to the man stuck to her like glue.

“Thank you for offering to walk me to my car.” She stepped back from the overeager concert promoter she’d danced with earlier tonight and promptly caught her heel in a crack between the pavers. She stifled a wince. “But I’ll be fine from here.”

“Are you sure?” He reached to steady her and looked skeptical about her ability to navigate the parking area.

“Absolutely.” She danced away again and gave him a friendly wave. “Good night.”

Blake had seemed harmless enough at first. But she was a wretched judge of people. It had been proven many times in a colorful dating career that included a charming thief who’d stolen all her jewelry and an in-the-closet gay man who’d only wanted her as a smoke screen for his disapproving parents. True to form, Blake had gone from fun to pushy about twenty minutes ago and Stacy was stuck trying to send him on his way.

In some ways, she didn’t blame her father for wanting to help her find a great guy through a matchmaking service. She could honestly see his point. On the other hand, how could she look at herself in the mirror if she allowed her father to pick the men she dated? The idea was ludicrous. But telling that to her dad was even tougher than shaking her clutching escort.

Initially, she’d hoped that setting her sights on an impossible date request in the form of hockey star Kyle Murphy would buy her time until she figured out what to do next. Sort of a passive-aggressive rebellion. She hadn’t counted on her father being on board with the plan—micromanaging the process and bullying her into attending the fundraiser tonight. In hindsight, she realized the idea of her landing a socially acknowledged great catch had appealed to his competitive side, which was legendary. He’d made Kyle Murphy a personal mission.

What a mess.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I left a lady alone out here?” Blake Someone-or-other caught up to her and gave her a knowing you’ll-be-mine-soon look that set her teeth on edge. The diamond studs in his eyebrow winked in the light of a streetlamp.

It was a flaw of her character that she couldn’t just tell guys like this to buzz off. For one thing, she expressed herself better in writing, where she had time to think and formulate her ideas. She loved her job with the local paper even though her dad considered it a waste of time. For another thing, she was a confirmed people-pleaser and preferred to coast along without making waves. She was the queen of disappearing after a trip to the ladies’ room.

But Blake Whoever was proving tough to shake. Where was Marissa Collins to run interference?

“Actually,” Stacy improvised, her feet killing her in the new stilettos that had pinched her heels even before she’d twisted her ankle. “My matchmaker insists I don’t start any relationships unless she’s involved. She already spoke to me tonight about agreeing to dance with you without—you know—following proper procedure.”

A flimsy excuse or a stroke of genius? She’d realized early on that Blake had only been hitting on her because of her wealthy father. Concert promoters liked to cozy up to the folks who owned big arenas, the same way her father hoped to woo business from the Murphy family if Stacy dated Kyle.

“You have a matchmaker?” He raised his diamond-studded brow.

“A strict one, unfortunately. My father insisted on it.” She extricated her arm from his hand and hated herself for playing the “dad” card. How would she assert her independence when she still relied on the family clout? “If you’d like, you can catch her in the lobby. Her name is Marissa.”

Putting her feet in high gear, she took advantage of her escort’s hesitation and hurried away as fast as her tyrannical shoes would allow. Weaving around a commercial truck, she never looked back, stopping only when she arrived at her base model American-made minivan. She’d bought the used silver Dodge Grand Caravan after her father berated her for wrecking the new Jaguar he’d bought for her twenty-first birthday. She’d only just gotten her license at twenty-one, after years of being chauffeured at his insistence. Who gave a new driver an expensive foreign car as a first vehicle? He’d been so mad about the wreck, he hadn’t dared yell more when she’d replaced the ride herself with money earned working for the local paper.

She dropped her keys twice and hurried to put the right one in the lock. Was it upside down? The fit seemed tight.

Come on.

Peering toward where she’d left Blake the Snake, she jammed the key in again and twisted hard.

“Are you trying to wreck my van on purpose?”

A male voice behind her startled her into a partial coronary and she jumped backward half a foot. A rumpled, grouchy-looking man wearing a faded Phantoms T-shirt glared at her. Thick, dark hair curled around his forehead and stood straight up in the middle as if he’d recently tried to pull it out. Low slung jeans revealed a good body, if a little underfed. Dark heavy eyebrows needed waxing about a decade ago. He carried a rolled up poster under one arm, probably fan paraphernalia from the hockey team’s fundraiser.

“Excuse me?” Her heart beat fast as she realized how isolated they were. The doorman seemed a million miles away and her touchy-feeling former dancing partner must have given up.

The man bent to retrieve her keys, which she’d dropped when he’d scared her to death. They were at least four feet away and half under the vehicle in front of hers.

“I wanted to know if you’re trying to break into my van or if you’re just doing your damnedest to scratch the paint.” He handed over the keys and dropped them into her palm, careful not to touch her.

The gesture was so remote and aloof that she felt both grateful he didn’t crowd her and miffed that he’d made such a production of not touching her. A silly thought, obviously.

“Your van?” She scrutinized the vehicle. The gray cloth interior was just as she remembered.

“Yes. Mine.” His gaze narrowed. “Have you been drinking?”

“Of course not.” She tried to put her key in the lock again.

“Would you like me to call you a cab?”

“I’ll be fine, thanks.” Flipping the key, she tested the lock in vain and got a sinking feeling in her stomach.

This wasn’t her van.

“Why don’t you try this one?”

Turning to face him, he held out his set—two keys on a plain silver fob, a far cry from her set of seven on a ring stuffed full of charms, including a stuffed leopard that helped her find them in her purse.

“I must have made a mistake,” she admitted, feeling oddly foolish. She did things like this all the time, so it wasn’t as though she had a problem being in the wrong. She’d accepted her lack of grace long ago—about the same time she’d realized men had tunnel vision when it came to women. Guys who were staring at your cleavage didn’t notice when you tripped over your feet.

Yet the stranger in the Phantoms shirt didn’t seem distracted by her cleavage. He zeroed in on her eyes in the dim light of the parking lot and seemed to see straight through her.

“Do you drive a Caravan?” he asked, not glaring anymore.

“Yes.” Pivoting, she stretched up on her toes to see around the lot. Where the heck had she parked?

And why did the guy in the Phantoms’ shirt make her feel so suddenly naked when he didn’t look at her with even the tiniest bit of male interest?

“I have to say I’m surprised.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t look like you belong in a minivan.”

“I love my Caravan,” she said fiercely, probably because her choice in cars had been questioned by her dad more than once. As she shifted her weight, her feet protested how long she’d spent on the tarmac.

“Me, too. Can I give you a lift to help you find yours?” He edged past her cautiously, giving her plenty of personal space until he took her place in front of the driver’s-side door. “You look like your feet hurt.”

How had he noticed when he hadn’t looked anywhere but her eyes?

“I—um. They do. But I’d better not.” In a conversation full of surprises, she realized she’d had no problem telling him “no.” Maybe because she knew it wouldn’t disappoint him, unlike the guys who tried hard to catch her attention.

“Right. Probably best not to take a ride from a stranger. But I’m sure hotel security has a car. They can help you find your van.” He opened the door easily and shoved the poster he’d been carrying inside. “I think you’re going to need them because there are no other silver Caravans nearby.”

“How do you know?” She craned her neck again.

“I make it a point to know my surroundings at all times.” He extended his hand. “Isaac Reynolds.”

“Stacy Goodwell.” Tentatively, she accepted the handshake. “I’m sorry if I’ve scratched your paint.”

Warm strength surrounded her fingers as he gave her hand a friendly squeeze. Gentle, but competent. She couldn’t remember caring one way or another about a handshake before, but she liked the feel of Isaac.

“I have touch-up paint at home. I’m sure it will be fine.” He released her fingers long before anyone could ever accuse him of flirting with her.

Maybe that was the problem. She didn’t know quite how to relate to a man who showed utterly no interest in her. She was confounded. And, perhaps, charmed because of it.

“On second thought.” Why should she fear a man who was in a hurry to go home and put touch-up paint on his van? She had mace in her purse if her instincts were wrong. “I’d actually appreciate some help finding my vehicle. Would you mind walking down the row with me?”

As flirtation attempts went, it wasn’t much. But she didn’t have any experience on this side of the equation. She’d been pursued so often, she’d never had to do the chasing.

And considering a pressing need to figure out her love life before her father contracted away her rights to it, Stacy liked the idea of making a move on Isaac Reynolds.

For a moment, he studied her with what almost looked like suspicion in his eyes. But that was crazy. Suspicious of what?

“I can do that,” he agreed, nodding.

She must have imagined his hesitation.

Following him with a new spring in her step, she could almost forget about the relentless clench of her shoes on her heels. Until a stone on the pavement made her turn her ankle. Sending her right into Isaac’s arms.

“I’M SURE YOU’RE NOT a sellout.” Kyle regretted his earlier accusation after seeing how much it affected Marissa. “I have a bad habit of saying whatever comes to mind without thinking it through.”

They drove around his Chestnut Hill neighborhood since it was one of the few areas of Philadelphia that he knew. He’d only been in town for a few weeks and with his team in the play-offs, hockey had consumed every second of his time. But Marissa didn’t seem to care where they were going, her eyes fixed out the front windshield, her gaze a million miles away.

“Being spontaneous doesn’t make it false.” She tugged off her glasses and folded them up, tucking them into a small evening bag. At the same time, she pulled a folded newspaper page from her purse. “And I knew about your tendency to speak your mind. I thought that would give you and Stacy a common trait. But I realize now that she tends to comment on more irreverent topics that feel like they come out of nowhere, while you cut to the chase.”

“Sounds like there would be a huge lack of impulse control in a relationship like that,” he observed, turning down the street where Axel had bought a house. “We’d probably kill each other in a week.”

“So tell me what you think would make for a good relationship for you. I’m not asking to try to find you a date. I’d just like to know how I went wrong since I’m usually good at this kind of thing.” She smoothed the folded newspaper clipping and he recognized the headline from yesterday’s sports section. “All I know for sure is that you’re great at scoring shoot-out goals.”

He tucked into a dead-end street with an outlet onto a vast park. Technically, it was probably closed, but houses backed up to the public property for miles, and it wasn’t fenced. He parked there and cut the headlights. Surrounded by maple trees full of new spring leaves, he cracked the window to catch the breeze.

“Well, you know the most important stuff.” Glancing at the paper she held, he imagined her carefully cutting out the story and folding it into neat sections. He enjoyed the idea of her carrying around his picture, even if it had been for business. “I grew up on Cape Cod. I have five brothers, four by blood and one because I picked him.”

Even Kyle didn’t know the full story about Axel’s past, but he’d urged his family to foster Ax in the U. S. because the guy had gotten into trouble with a bad crowd while he was in high school. But he was aces on the ice.

“How does one go about picking a brother?” She swiveled toward him in her seat and he was mesmerized by the unobstructed view of her gorgeous eyes.

“Axel and I played on an international junior team together. From day one, he told me that if I scored the goals, he’d make sure no one got in my way.”

“He sounds sure of himself.”

“He talks smack but he backs it up. The guy cleaned up the ice with the competition. He was like a Murphy separated at birth.” Kyle hadn’t realized how effective they worked as a team until they’d been reunited this year, each of them experiencing record-breaking seasons. “Ax wanted to come to the U.S. for a better shot at making it in the NHL, so I hounded my mom and dad to take him in.”

“You must have great parents.” Tucking the newspaper back into her bag where it lay on the console between them, she was ready to snap the purse closed when he noticed the decoy wedding ring inside.

With the lightning-fast hands that allowed him to compete at the highest level of his sport, Kyle reached in the bag to filch it.

“You must not date enough if you’re wearing a wedding ring every time you go out.” Rolling the band between his thumb and forefinger, he held it up to one eye like a monocle.

Too bad it didn’t really work to bring this mysterious woman into better focus.

“You said you have no time for dating right now, either, so I’m not alone in putting my career first,” she said carefully.

He had to admire how easily she’d turned that one around.

“So we agree seeing people isn’t a good idea because we’re too busy.” He lowered the ring and slid it back into her bag, not wanting to see it on her finger.

She frowned. “I still believe you would benefit from expanding your horizons.”

“And I think going out with me would be great for you.” He shifted closer, leaning one arm into the console where her fingers rested. “You see how I have you cornered? Any argument you make for me dating is only going to be an argument I’ll make for you to date me.”

“That’s not logical.” She angled forward, too, so she could argue with him; whereas he was leaning forward in order to kiss her. “If you don’t have time to be matched with a woman, you wouldn’t have time for me.”

“There’s always time for the things in life that are most important.”

“You don’t even know me,” she protested, her tone conveying a large dose of exasperation that he felt only a little guilty about. Her violet eyes sucked him in and made him want to linger in the spotlight of that gaze.

“I know you a whole hell of a lot better than I know the Ms. Anonymous who wants to go out with me.” He’d been attracted to Marissa from the moment she ordered a shot of Scotch with her Coke. She was an original from head to toe, oddly unassuming and obviously comfortable on the sidelines, but that was exactly why he wanted to be with her. A woman like that would never date someone just for fame and fortune. “It would be hypocritical of me to date someone else when I’m really, insanely attracted to you.”

Watching her, he let the heat build all around them without saying a word. Without moving an inch. He didn’t need to. The magnetism simply existed, as surely as a scientific principle, whether or not they acted on it.

Slowly, she shook her head. “I can’t. What kind of matchmaker would I be if I swooped in and took the prize catch for myself? No client would ever trust me again.”

Her voice, so impossibly soft, was the only hint that her resolve might have weakened. She sat utterly still, caught in the same heat wave as him, but she seemed determined to ignore it.

“So stubborn,” he observed, taking her hand in his to stroke the backs of her fingers. Trace the rise and fall of her knuckles where her skin was smooth and creamy. “But who would trust you if you set me up with someone else and, in the meantime, you and I couldn’t keep our eyes off each other?”

A breeze drifted in through the window and Marissa lifted her chin as if to catch the cool air on her face. He had the feeling she was trying to find the will to tell him off and shut things down between them. So, upping his game, he raised a finger to her upturned face and sketched a soft stroke down the length of her throat.

Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted. And he would have had to have been superhuman to resist the way she looked right then.

“Marissa.” Her whispered name was the last warning he intended to give. Even that was more invitation than anything.

Skimming a touch behind her neck, he drew her closer. His pulse revved as if he’d been running a speed workout as he imagined taking down her hair and letting it spill all over his hands. He caught the floral and spicy scent of her, something exotic and sexy but so slight he’d have to really inhale to identify it.

His lips hovered over hers as he savored the moment and the woman. At the last minute, though, she hooked her fingers over his shoulders and pulled him into her, taking the kiss.

Her mouth was slick with lip gloss and cinnamon flavor, a surprisingly girlish touch on a woman who worked hard to deflect attention. He wanted to lick and nibble away at the flavor until he’d uncovered the woman beneath. Hunger surged after being reined in all night, and he battled to keep the kiss light and seductive. This could not be a one-time deal.

Suppressing the urge to let his hands roam freely, to explore her slight curves, he distracted himself by tugging pins out of her hair. One. Two. Three.

The shiny mass tumbled down to her shoulders, releasing the scent of citrus. Her hair was so thick it was still damp in some places, as if she’d washed it before she went to the fundraiser. He combed his fingers through, unable to get enough of her. He wanted to taste her, touch her, breathe her in. Lips traveling down her neck, he sought the source of her scent while he savored her creamy skin. Spearing his fingers deeper into her hair, he cradled the base of her skull, angling her this way and that until he found the hint of scent behind one ear. Orchids maybe. Or some extravagant night-blooming flower.

Inhaling deeply, he rubbed his cheek there, bathing in a fragrance he knew he’d never forget.

If not for the constraints of the car, he would have been all over her. No. He would have pulled her on top of him, pressed her against him. He didn’t know whether to curse the damn console or be grateful for the restraint it imposed.

“What are we doing?” she whispered helplessly against his ear, her fingers clutching his shoulders as if she was hanging on for dear life.

The image pleased the hell out of him. “Being impulsive.” He licked his way into the curve of her shoulder and felt her shiver. “Isn’t it the best?”

Liking her reaction, he ran his tongue along that same spot over and over again until she trembled again.

“I’m not impulsive.” She said it even as she arched her neck to give him more room to work.

“You are now.” He wanted to press her back into the leather seat and see if he could make her whole body shudder. But he wouldn’t taint that victory with the knowledge that he’d pushed his luck on a night that had been tough on her.

A night where he’d made her cry.

His conscience kicked in then, reminding him that he needed to play fair.

With more than a little regret, he eased back, breaking away in slow degrees since he didn’t think he could quit touching her completely. She blinked up at him, passion-dazed and breathing fast.

Exactly what he wanted and yet precisely why he needed to take a break. He’d be willing to bet that, under normal circumstances, she would have battled the attraction more.

But something upset her tonight and he had the feeling there was more to it than just him.

“You’re realizing we made a huge mistake.” She released her hold on his shoulders, her hands sliding away to fold neatly in her lap. “I agree.”

“No. Hell, no.” He took in the sight of her with her hair down and tousled around her shoulders, liking the idea that he’d been the only one to see her this way tonight. “I just didn’t want to push my luck, and I knew if I didn’t quit soon … there would have been no stopping.”

As it stood—and wasn’t that an apt expression considering his current condition?—Marissa would be a fixture in his dreams, most certainly at the cost of sleep.

All of which would be a detriment to his practice tomorrow, but he couldn’t bring himself to care right now.

“That was thoughtful of you.” She picked up a pen from the change tray in the console. “May I borrow this?”

“Sure.” He shrugged, wondering what she could want to write at a time like this. “I don’t have any paper.”

“That’s okay.” Gathering her hair, she twisted and rolled the dark strands and then jammed the pen down into the center of the roll, magically keeping the whole thing in place. “I should be getting back to my car.”

She studied him in the dim light of the half-moon and a streetlamp behind his car. Then, like a lady warrior who hadn’t finished putting on her armor, she retrieved her glasses from her purse and slid them into place on her nose.

Kyle ran a finger along the top of the frames.

“You might as well put a tissue between us for all the good those do.”

“The more barriers the better.” She dug into her handbag again.

“What else do you have in there? A false nose? A burka?” How much more could she distance herself from him? Would he ever have a shot at being with her again or had he already seen as much impulsiveness as she possessed?

She withdrew a folded sheet of paper and handed it to him.

“No. Something else guaranteed to send you running.”

Frowning, he unfolded the heavy stock and saw the fine print of a detailed questionnaire about his dating preferences. It was a matchmaking form, probably standard issue for her clients.

“After what just happened, you’re giving me this?” He’d taken shots to the jaw that had had less impact. “You can’t be serious.”

All traces of the violet-eyed temptress were gone. She straightened in her seat and smoothed her skirt.

“Just in case you change your mind.”