Captivated By The Tycoon. Anna DePalo

at his apartment, he felt as if he’d been taken to task by Ms. Manners. “All I said was I’ve been targeted by social climbers and gold diggers.”

      “Same thing,” she responded before giving her attention to the salesman.

      Lauren and the clerk got into a conversation about the “it” colors of the season and various private labels.

      Matt limited his answers to yes, no and forget it. It was the way he was used to operating in the boardroom, and the approach had served him well.

      He could tell it was exasperating Lauren, however.

      When the clerk had gone to try to find an appropriate size, she asked, “Could you volunteer more than one-word answers?”

      He gave her a slow smile. “Yes.”

      She sucked in a breath, causing her chest to rise, and his gaze headed south.

      When his eyes met hers again, a momentary but electric pause ensued.

      “We may need to work on your conversation skills, too,” she said into the silence.

      “They’ve served me well enough in the boardroom. Extraneous words are wasted energy. Why talk when there are more effective ways of communicating?”

      He itched with a sudden urge to show her just how effective other modes of communication could be. They were standing in a very public place, with shoppers milling about around them, yet it felt as if they were in their own private world.

      The salesman’s return, however, broke the spell, and they were directed toward a changing room. Lauren was shown to a chair outside to wait.

      In the private room, he shrugged out of his clothes and into a pair of khakis and a casual shirt. He emerged a few minutes later so Lauren could pass judgment.

      “Hmm,” she said.

      Sitting with legs crossed, she tilted her head to the side. “Turn around.”

      He eyed her, then did as she asked. The clothes weren’t his usual style but he was willing to bend a little.

      More important, he couldn’t detect a hint that she was enjoying issuing commands and sitting in judgment. Still, he had his suspicions.

      He turned back around.

      “Good fit,” she said.

      He’d never thought two such innocent words could be so erotic.

      In fact, this whole shopping trip was turning into a more intimate experience than he’d ever have guessed. He felt like a Chippendales dancer at the start of a routine.

      “Are you comfortable?” she asked.

      Comfortable wasn’t the word he’d use. Turned- on was more like it, and if he wasn’t careful, it would soon be evident to everyone else, as well.

      Aloud, he said, “They fit fine.” He nodded at the salesman standing nearby. “We’ll take them.”

      “Very good,” the salesman said. “There are some belts I can show you.”

      When the man had gone, Lauren said, “You’re decisive.”

      “Impatient,” he corrected. “Usually I’m in and out of stores like this in less than thirty minutes. Ten to find what I’m looking for, five to try it on for size, and another ten to pay and make it out the door.”

      She smiled sweetly. “But you’re such a natural!”

      So she was enjoying this.

      “I feel like a model in a bad TV ad,” he muttered.

      “Actually, I’m helping to organize a fashion show to raise money for the Boston Operatic League. We’re still short on male volunteers to model the designer clothes that have been donated.”

      “Forget it.”

      “Consider it,” she cajoled. “It would be a wonderful way to meet people. You’d be in the perfect environment to find some sweet-tempered woman who thinks supporting the arts is important, while promoting yourself in the best light possible by helping out.”

      “Nice try, but no dice.” In fact, if either of his brothers ever got wind of the fact he’d paraded up and down some runway in front of dozens of judgmental women, they’d dissolve into paroxysms of laughter. Not to mention that his reputation as a tough corporate adversary would take a hit.

      He needed to slam on the brakes before Lauren transformed him into some smoking-jacket-wearing, charity-auction-volunteering, in-touch-with-his-feelings dream man.

      He had his limits.

      And those limits apparently included Levi’s, which is what he came away with, along with assorted other purchases.

      As the salesclerk wrapped up the purchases, Matt admitted to himself that Lauren knew her stuff. If the matchmaking gig didn’t work out for her, she had a future as a personal shopper.

      He’d let her take control today, more than he’d ever let anyone else do it when it came to his life. Or, rather, she’d alternately cajoled, coaxed and teased her way into getting what she wanted—at least some of the time.

      The fact she was so small, and he loomed over her, just added to the irony of it all.

      Thinking of how he outsized her, his body tightened, and he had to remind himself again that petite women weren’t his usual style. Especially one particular bossy petite woman who acted as if she was unsure whether she liked him. A petite woman whose primary interest in him appeared to be to further her business.

      If it were otherwise, he’d have to start asking himself sticky questions about his past motives, and he didn’t want to go there.

      So naturally, the first words out of his mouth were, “When are you open for dinner so I can brush up on my conversation skills?”

      Three

      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.”