Читать книгу Underneath It All - Nancy Warren - Страница 8

DARREN KAISER was literally on top of the world. He was chatting to one of the hottest-looking women—and there was stiff competition—at a rooftop cocktail reception in Manhattan.

“I’ll call you,” Darren Kaiser’s new friend, Serena, said, her shoulder-length blond hair swinging against athletically sculpted shoulders perfectly displayed in a clingy black halter dress. She leaned forward to give Darren a kiss that promised a lot more than phone conversation.

“You do that,” he said, giving her a kiss back that let her know he could keep up his end of whatever she had in mind. From the rooftop deck, all of New York City was laid out in noisy, sparkling splendor, far beneath the well-heeled feet of upwardly mobile twenty-and thirty-somethings.

He nodded to a couple of acquaintances, then decided he’d stayed long enough. He pulled out his cell phone to call his car service for a pickup, then slowed to redrape a sexy young woman’s shawl over her shoulder from whence it had dropped. She rewarded him with a blindingly white smile and an air kiss.

Not being much of an air-kisser himself, he winked at her and kept going.

Darren Kaiser loved being a single man in Manhattan. There were so many beautiful, smart, sexy women. He was crazy about the new female power-babes who were totally up-front about what they wanted, when they wanted it and with whom.

Especially when they wanted it with him.

He whistled as he left Studio 450, where the benefit for fibromyalgia was still in full swing. The benefit was a thinly veiled excuse for singles to check one another out. Darren was here on a corporate ticket paid for by Kaiser Image Makers, and he still felt as if he was working, since he was expected to hand out a few business cards and schmooze.

So, he’d schmoozed a beautiful woman. Or, more accurately, she’d schmoozed him. These days, a man didn’t even need to take a pen and paper with him to the dating-and-mating hunting grounds. If a woman was interested, she’d do what Serena had done—pull out her Palm Pilot and enter him into her database.

Thoughts of the sexy Serena almost made Darren contemplate blowing off work tonight. But he was anxious to get a few hours in—before his pseudo work in the morning. He’d found a glitch in the educational software program he was designing and he’d suddenly had an idea for how to fix it right about the time he sipped his first martini and chomped his first hors d’oeuvres.

He’d have bolted home right then, except that Serena had appeared with a toss of blond hair, an it’s-your-lucky-night smile and her hand extended.

He’d enjoyed chatting with her and exchanging speculative eye contact, enjoyed the first few steps of a dance he never tired of: the dance of seduction. Unlike the bulk of Manhattanites, old and young, she hadn’t wanted to talk exclusively about herself. Serena Ashcroft had seemed genuinely interested in him. His politics, his tastes in fashion, music, movies, clothes and women. Not being stupid, he’d described his ideal woman as someone a lot like Serena. He’d looked into her cool, patrician blue eyes and said, “My ideal woman is blonde, articulate, slim and sexy, and isn’t afraid to go after what she wants.” He leaned closer so he could smell her expensive scent. “Especially when what she wants is me.” She’d looked so enthralled with his answers he almost expected her to take notes.

Still whistling, he jumped into the black limo that pulled up just as he hit the pavement, wondering how long it would take Serena to call.

Serena was pale, blonde and patrician—the sort of woman whose ancestors had traveled over on the Mayflower. His forbears had come over steerage-class—if they hadn’t stowed away—on some overcrowded European steamer. Their first taste of America hadn’t been Plymouth Rock, but Ellis Island.

He felt his blood quicken as he challenged himself to prove to this sexy blonde that he was worthy. He loved a challenge.

As he’d expected, Serena called, not the next day, but the day after, and suggested they meet for a drink after work. And for the next couple of months, they got together sporadically. They never seemed able to coordinate their schedules for serious dating, but he was busy, anyway.

She was in publishing, she told him, and he imagined her editing the memoirs of famous men and women of letters. It was an occupation that would suit her.

A couple of times they were photographed by one or other of the paparazzi that hopped around the social scene like fleas. As a VP and son of the CEO of one of the hottest ad agencies in town, Darren was used to the attention, but usually tried to blow it off. Serena seemed to enjoy having her photo taken when they were together, however, so he put up and shut up, knowing that his father would get a thrill seeing the company name mentioned in print and his son’s picture in the paper.

Then, one warm late spring day, Darren discovered Serena had set him up.

The day started as it usually did. Tired from working too late the night before at his computer, he grabbed a java from the corner coffee shop he frequented on Madison Avenue half a block from his office.

He gulped the dark, liquid caffeine, hoping it would jump-start his sleep-deprived brain, as he tried to concentrate on today’s tasks. He was expecting focus-group results on a campaign for a new soda; he was increasing the TV buy for a sportswear manufacturer; and he was booked to have lunch with a prospective client.

The crowded elevator rose and let him out on his floor, the upper of the three levels that housed Kaiser Image Makers, which most people referred to simply as KIM.

“Congratulations, Darren,” said Angie, the receptionist, before answering a ringing phone.

He sent her a wave, wondering why she was offering kudos. Had he done something good? He tried to recall what it was. Hopefully it would be enough to please the old man.

Sure enough, when he got to his office, his father was standing in front of Darren’s gleaming white desk, his smile as glossy as the magazine in his hands. Was it Advertising Age? Positive industry buzz always excited his publicity hound of a father. But no, the magazine was a regular-size one with a young, dark-haired man on the cover. Must be some successful ad campaign that had his dad licking his chops.

“Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”

“Congratulations, son. I knew you didn’t turn out good-looking like your mother for nothing.” And his father, president, CEO and founder of KIM closed the magazine and thrust it toward Darren.

Darren stared at the cover, and the bottom of his stomach went into free fall. “What the…” His words felt sucked dry as though a vacuum hose had attacked his mouth, taking the breath out of his body.

The mug grinning up at him from the front cover of Matchmaker magazine—nationwide circulation in the millions—was his. And the headline over the top read, “Manhattan Match of the Year, Advertising Executive, Darren Kaiser.”

Darren flopped onto the black Bauhaus couch as his legs gave out on him.

“What…” He tried to pull air into his lungs, but they felt flattened. He tried again. “How did they…” Finally he reached out a hand. “Let me see that.”

His father chuckled as though he were Santa Claus and this was Christmas Eve. He was smoking a cigar, which his cardiologist had forbade him, and his laughter shook the seventy or so plus pounds he was supposed to shed.

“I wasn’t certain they’d pick you. But I was very persuasive.” His dad chuckled again, happier than Darren had seen him in months.

“Pick me for what?” Darren asked, knowing he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Where have you been, boy? I keep telling you you’ve got to stay on top of popular media if you’re going to make it in advertising. This Match of the Year thing is huge. It’s like People’s Sexiest Man on Earth—which reminds me, we’ll have to send them some hints to look your way now you’re going to be so famous.”

The thought of conducting his love life in public made him nauseous.

“Darren, your mother and I want nothing more than to see you settle down and marry a nice girl. Now that the magazine has decided you’re a great catch, there’ll be all kinds of publicity. You could date royalty, movie stars. Anybody!”

“No.”

“I want grandchildren.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

“You don’t have to marry any of them if you don’t want to. You just play the game. You’ll be famous, KIM will be famous. Clients will pour out of the woodwork.”

“I am not putting my love life on display so you can make a few more million. No.”

“Think of the publicity. You’ll be photographed everywhere, you’ll get pretty girls proposing, all of America will be part of your courtship.” The old man’s eyes twinkled with excitement. “Think what the reality TV show did for that tire fellow.”

“They broke up.” A shudder shook Darren as he imagined his love life as a reality TV show. At least the magazine thing wasn’t that bad. Swiftly, his media-savvy brain assessed the damage as he tried to convince himself this Match of the Year pick wasn’t a total, life-altering disaster.

All at once the most obvious objection sprang to mind. “This is a nightmare. I can’t believe the media group that owns Matchmaker magazine would choose me without my knowledge or consent. I mean, this is an invasion of privacy right here. Where did they even get this picture?” He jabbed a finger at the photograph. “That was taken at our company’s annual general meeting last year.” He flipped a page angrily and saw an even worse sight. “And where the hell did they get my baby picture?” he yelled.

His father chuckled, sending out a puff of cigar smoke.

And in that moment he knew. “Dad.”

He and his father rarely saw eye to eye, but he’d never wanted to deck dear old dad until now. “You gave that photo to them. Didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. We wanted this to be a surprise. You weren’t the only possible candidate, you know. Men all over America would kill to be in your shoes.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“That pleasant young woman who’s the special-assignment editor for Matchmaker magazine. Serena Ashcroft. There’s a picture of the two of you together in the four-page spread.” Darren Kaiser Sr. jabbed his cigar toward the magazine. “You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”

Darren flipped none too gently through the pages until he saw even more photos of him at various events, with an assortment of women, including Serena of the big blue eyes and the “Oh, let’s talk about you,” conniving personality.

He’d talked, and she’d either recorded their conversations or she had a damn good memory. There he was, revealed in photographs and print in all his glory. His tastes in everything from music to restaurants laid out for all the world to dine on.

My ideal woman, jumped out at him. They’d displayed this little gem of wisdom in a text box with a larger type size.

My ideal woman is a blonde. She’s a professional woman who knows what she wants from life and isn’t afraid to go after it. Even if that something is me. She’s educated, intelligent, classy, but also very sexy.

Sweat was starting to dampen his brow and he felt like he might puke. He didn’t doubt he’d spouted that nonsense, but he’d never intended it for any ears but Serena’s.

A quick skim told him that there was a Web site where women could write in about themselves and why they would love to date Darren. Since the magazine pledged to do its best to fix him up with eligible women throughout the year, there would be updates about his dating habits, his preferences and his experiences with the opposite sex.

He was having trouble turning the pages and he realized even his fingertips had started to sweat.

“Darren,” his assistant, Jeanie, called breathlessly from his doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got The Tonight Show people on line one and Entertainment Tonight holding on line two.”

“Wonderful. Wonderful,” said his father. “I’ll let you go, then.”

“Dad, what have you done?” Darren asked hoarsely.

“What our company does best, son. I’ve given you an image as the most eligible bachelor in America.”

KATE MONAHAN’S FEET ACHED, which wasn’t surprising since she’d been on them all day. She was halfway through her third twelve-hour shift at New Image, the salon where she worked, in as many days. But her younger brother, Huey, needed braces and she had her eye on a DKNY skirt and jacket that her bargain-hunter nose told her was headed for another markdown, so she tried to think about her bank balance and not her feet.

Graduation season was always a busy, and lucrative, time of year.

“So,” she said to her fourth high-school senior that day, “what are we doing?”

“I want it layered, you know, like Rachel in Friends.”

“Sure.”

“But with the fluttery bangs like Cameron Diaz in Charlie’s Angels. Not the first movie but the second one.”

“Aha.” She shifted feet, trying to get the ache out of her lower back. Her friend and co-worker, Ruby, breezed by and they exchanged a glance, but at least her friend didn’t say anything to make her laugh. With Ruby, you could never tell.

“And the same color as Julianne Moore, only more like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”

“You’re going to dye your hair for grad?”

It never failed to amaze Kate what these girls’ mothers let them get away with.

“Yep. Well, like your hair. What color is that?” the teenager with perfectly attractive brown hair asked her with a squint that was assessing. “Mocha berry or copper glitz?”

Kate grabbed a fistful of the mass of curls that no styling product, blow dryer or curling iron could ever entirely tame. “It’s red, and it’s the color God gave me.”

“Well, God gave me this boring brown and I want to look as hot as you when I graduate.”

Kate sent soon-to-graduate Bethany off to be shampooed and quickly phoned the girl’s mother to make sure it was okay about the color. Anything she wants, was the answer.

At eighteen. Imagine.

Ruby stopped her and said, “Tell that girl that Ashton Kutcher has cuter bangs. And no haircut or dye job is going to make her look like Julia Roberts.”

She stifled a giggle, but Ruby was right. Still, it didn’t hurt to put a little magic in a young woman’s life. She’d do what she could.

Once she had Bethany settled under the dryer, she passed her a sheaf of current magazines, and the brunette, soon-to-be-redhead immediately chose a well-thumbed copy of Matchmaker magazine.

“If I could marry him,” the girl said, pointing a freshly manicured index finger at the photo on the cover, “I’d be set for life.”

Kate gazed at the man’s picture. “Darren Kaiser, Matchmaker’s Match of the Year,” she read, staring at the man deemed so eligible women would go to humiliating lengths to marry him.

Darren Kaiser had playboy written all over him. He had Brad Pitt blond hair, a little long and with just a hint of a curl at the ends. It looked as though each strand had been individually groomed to provide that tousled disorder. He had the sensual face of a man who likes women and usually gets whatever he wants from them. His lips tilted in a smile that was only going through the motions—there was no genuine warmth. Beautiful eyes, she thought, but cynical. He wore a suit, and even though only the shoulders were visible in the picture, she was certain the clothes on his back cost more than her mother spent to feed her family for a year.

Yes, she thought, he was good-looking in a smooth, slick sort of way, but she didn’t see a real man in the photo. More like a perfect image of one.

“He’s a hottie,” sighed her client.

“He looks altogether too full of himself. And those rich men—” Kate shook her head “—what would they want with the likes of us? We’d end up picking up their socks and propping up their egos. Bethany, take my advice and find yourself a decent man who cares about you. Leave the boy millionaires to marry girl millionaires.”

She glanced at the photo of Brian she’d taped to her station. He was so different from the glossy fellow with the perfect smile. Things had been a bit weird lately between her and her boyfriend, but she thought it was because they were both so busy right now. Brian would never be a magazine cover’s idea of the ideal bachelor, but he was a down-to-earth man with a steady job in banking who shared her basic values.

He was ambitious, too, which was good. Having grown up with a widowed mother and four brothers and sisters, lack of money was all too familiar. Kate appreciated an ambitious man with a steady job. Besides, with all his training and knowledge, Brian was investing her money for her so she could achieve her dreams more quickly.

She glanced at the about-to-graduate teen glued to the story of a fantasy man and shook her head. No glossy hunk on a magazine cover was going to drop into their lives and provide the happily-ever-after.