Captivated By The Tycoon. Anna DePalo

as long as the Sentinel continued to bestow its ridiculous title on him, every shrewd, fortune-hunting female in the greater Boston area would be pursuing him with a vengeance.

      It couldn’t hurt to give Lauren’s service a shot for a few months. His time was valuable, and though he couldn’t change the past, Lauren’s business would get a boost if she could claim to have paired off Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor.

      Just then Lauren looked up from reviewing the questionnaire, calling him back from his thoughts.

      Pen poised over paper, she said briskly, “Let’s fill in the blanks.”

      He almost smiled at her business-like tone.

      “Do you have a preferred hair color?”

      He looked at her hair. “I like brunettes.”

      Her hair had a silky, smooth look to it and fell past her shoulders. He was glad she hadn’t cut it since he’d last seen her. It appeared even longer than he remembered it being.

      “Age range?” she asked, looking up from jotting down his first answer.

      “Someone in her thirties.” He tried to remember how old she’d been at the time of her wedding five years ago. Twenty-five?

      She pinned him with a penetrating look. “Would you date someone who’s older than you are?”

      The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m an equal opportunity dater.”

      His droll humor was met with more scribbling. “Eye color?”

      Her eyes were the lovely blue-green of the sea. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her when Parker had introduced her to him as his fiancée five years ago. Aloud, he heard himself say, “Doesn’t matter, but I’m partial to green.”

      “Height?”

      He eyeballed her. Even though she was sitting down, he estimated she couldn’t be more than five foot five or six, even in heels. Tall enough for him, he figured. “Not too tall.”

      She looked at him skeptically. “You’re over six feet. Are you sure you want to date petite women?”

      Oh, yeah, he thought. And, kiss them, too, if their lips were anything like hers: full and beckoning.

      He reined in his wayward thoughts. He wasn’t here to date Lauren, he was here to hire her. She was just a good model for what he might find attractive in a woman, considering he hadn’t given it much thought before showing up for this appointment. He knew what he didn’t want, and as for the rest, he’d know it when he saw her.

      Aloud he said, “I’ve dated petite women in the past.” It was a bit of a stretch. “It’s not an issue for me.”

      She arched an eyebrow.

      He looked back at her blandly.

      After a moment, she jotted down his answer and his others to her subsequent questions, then set her pad aside.

      She crossed and then uncrossed her legs.

      He waited.

      She cleared her throat. “One of the things I’ve learned from running this business for the past four years is that, to make an ideal match, I often have to prepare my client to be an ideal match.”

      He wondered where this conversation was heading.

      “What I mean is,” she continued, apparently choosing her words with care, “sometimes people, no matter how successful in their professional lives, need a few pointers.”

      “Cut to the chase.” In his business dealings, he was used to laying out what needed to be said, without hedging or apologies.

      She shifted. “I’ve seen the occasional press about you. You’re described as cool, calculating and aloof.”

      He was proud of those characteristics, he wanted to tell her. They kept his business adversaries off balance, just the way he liked them. Still, while he might be like that publicly, privately was a different matter—at least when he wasn’t around her. Five years ago, he’d had a frustrating inability to get beyond stiff conversation with her.

      “Ideal Match can help,” she went on quickly. “Before turning you loose on a real date, we can work on the total package together.”

      “The total package?” he prompted.

      She nodded. “Creating your best you. Clothes, image, conversation skills…”

      She waved her hand in the air as if further explanation was unnecessary.

      Matt recalled that Allison had said Lauren was called Dr. Date. Now he knew why—besides the fact she’d had more than a few success stories with her services. “So you’re going to coach me?”

      A fleeting look of discomfort crossed her face, then she said crisply, “Something like that.”

      “Fine.” He was used to making fast decisions. It was the only way to survive when you swam with the corporate sharks. Besides, he could afford to pay her well for her services.

      And then, of course, Ms. Matchmaker might discover there were a few lessons that he could teach her.

      Two

      Luxurious. The word flashed again through Lauren’s mind as she stepped into the elevator of Matt’s building.

      The doorman had already announced her arrival. She’d heard Matt’s voice through the phone instructing the uniformed doorman to show her up.

      She made a mental note to herself that Matt apparently didn’t retain a housekeeper on weekends. She’d learned long ago that every bit of information about a client could prove useful in constructing a profile for his ideal match.

      They’d agreed to meet at his apartment on a Saturday—the only time Matt had available—to begin figuring out how to package him to meet Ms. Right.

      As the elevator rose, its wood paneling and Oriental-pattern carpeting adding to the ambience of a building that spoke of wealth in hushed tones, Lauren wondered again whether she’d been crazy to take on this assignment.

      Her effectiveness as a matchmaker depended on her ability to keep an emotional distance from her clients, but Matt was associated with the most explosive drama of her life.

      On top of it all, she’d long ago sworn off on anybody associated with her former fiancé. Matt was rich, privileged and born to rule, and he’d been Parker’s would-be groomsman. In her mind, they were cut from the same cloth.

      In fact, the building she’d just entered was the type of place she’d envisioned Matt living in. It was dark brick and prewar, with liveried doormen and a dark green awning.

      The Whittakers were old-line, old-money Boston. Not surprisingly then, Matt’s apartment wasn’t a pretentious sprawling penthouse in a gleaming new high-rise, with an elevator opening directly into the apartment.

      Instead, as she discovered when the elevator doors opened, there were two apartments on the top floor, and they shared a softly lit hallway.

      Matt stood in the doorway to his apartment. He was dressed in business clothes, minus the suit jacket and tie.

      He stepped aside. “Come on in. You’re right on time.”

      Her heart beat faster. He was big, male and coated with just a veneer of civility.

      Irritated with her reaction, she said, “Because we all know time is money, don’t we?”

      Moving past him into the apartment, she added, “That’s the last impression you want to convey to a date.”

      He followed her in and closed the door. “But what if I am timing her?”

      “Maybe it would be best to save that sort of thing for after the wedding.” She knew it sounded as if they were talking about kinky