Captivated By The Tycoon

Lauren could tell this was where Matt spent most of his time. The desk was covered with piles of paper and documents, and a laptop lay open. It was the only room so far that contained a trace of disorder.

Finally, they came to a long hallway.

Matt nodded down the rug-covered expanse. “This leads to the bedrooms and baths. A couple of years ago, I had the option to buy the apartment below and make this place into a duplex with a guest wing on the lower floor.” He shrugged. “But the apartment was already more than big enough for a bachelor.”

“Yes, I see.”

The penthouse was masculine and understated, but bore the unmistakable markings of a professional designer’s hand. Still, for all the expense, there was something missing.

It took her a second to figure out what.

There was no warmth to the place. No photographs documenting the occupant’s major life moments, no collectibles from memorable vacations, not even awards hinting at hobbies and favorite pastimes.

In short, Matt Whittaker remained as much a cipher as ever.

“It may need a little helping hand, however,” she said slowly.

“What does?”

“Your apartment.”

He looked around and frowned. “What’s wrong with it? I paid a professional.”

“Exactly.”

“It cost plenty—”

“—but has no heart,” she finished for him. “I’m surprised your designer didn’t incorporate your mementos and prized possessions when she redecorated.”

“The designer was someone recommended by my sister-in-law, and she did. But my stuff is still boxed up.”

“Hmm…and how long ago did you redecorate?”

He did not look amused. “I do a lot of corporate travel. I’m rarely here.”

“If you don’t have time to live in your apartment, you won’t have time to call her for a date.”

He looked ready with a rebuttal, and she restrained herself from tsk-tsking at the forbidding expression on his face.

“The deadline is Wednesday, by the way.”

“Wednesday, for what?”

“The day of the week by which you’ll call her for a weekend date.”

She realized she sounded like a scolding nanny, but it was the only way she knew not to be overwhelmed by him.

“Got it,” he said dryly. “Why do I feel as if I should be taking notes?”

“It may be a good idea. Anyway, traveling frequently would be a good excuse if you had another place you called home instead of—” she gestured around her “—this.”

He arched a brow.

“I’m not going to redecorate your apartment.” She sought to reassure him.

“Happy to hear it.”

“But I would suggest a few pieces to give a woman a clue about you. Maybe some strategically placed photos. Nothing major. We can find some frames that blend with your new decor.”

She was not going to be intimidated by him, she told herself for the umpteenth time. She’d handled high-powered prosecutors and corporate titans without being unnerved.

“Let’s look at your closets next,” she heard herself say. “Then maybe we can take the shopping trip we discussed as a possibility for this afternoon.”

On to his bedroom. She was about to discover what lay at the end of the long hallway in front of her.

His bedroom was huge, easily the size of half her modest apartment. A king-size bed dominated, and the furniture had a contemporary look—dark with clean lines and brushed metal knobs. A master bath was visible through one open door, and a fireplace occupied the wall facing the bed.

She took a deep breath. The room was as imposing as its occupant, but she was a professional. At least as far as matchmaking went, she qualified to herself.

She looked at the closet on the far wall. “May I?”

“Go right ahead.”

When she threw open the double doors, she was confronted by expensive shirts and conservative business suits hanging in neat rows. Everything was a variation on a theme.

“Where’s the casual clothing?” She looked at him, then raised a hand to stop him before he could answer. “No, don’t tell me. You live in suits most of the time.”

He cocked his head. “Very perceptive of you.”

“We’ll have to fix that.”

His look was sardonic. “Do you subject your female clients to this treatment?”

“Absolutely. It’s not about becoming someone you’re not, but about creating a better you.”

“So what do you recommend to the women?”

“Now if I told you, I’d be letting you in on the secret handshake.”

“My lips are sealed.”

She sighed. “I’ll share only because I think you’ll put this information to good use.”

A smile played at his mouth. “I’m all ears.”

“Well, I recommend that with clothing, they start with the basics, which never go out of fashion. A little black dress, a suit, a pair of jeans, a white shirt, nude color high heels, and a pair of sneakers. As far as jewelry, a watch and pearls.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why would I joke?” she asked. “The basics are just that. They can be mixed and matched to take you from morning to evening, casual to formal.”

“Okay, I have to ask. Why nude on the heels?”

“It’s sexy,” she said simply. “It draws the eye away from the feet and upward, which makes a woman appear taller, and is particularly important if she’s—” she paused, as she belatedly realized how much she was revealing, and finished lamely “—ah, petite.”

He gave her a look of mock gravity. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Naturally.” He could make fun all he wanted, but she had a nice little business going—and he’d been the one to seek out her help.

He raked her with his eyes, from the faux pearls set off by her scoop-neck sweater and the black jeans hugging her curves to her wedge sandals.

She shifted self-consciously, then gave herself a mental shake.

She was his matchmaker, and she was going to get him married off to some appropriate socialite or wannabe—even if she had to custom order a woman from Mattel with mythical characteristics to match a Barbie doll’s mythical proportions.

She was going to make him Ideal Match’s biggest success story to date, even if it dredged up every single best-forgotten memory in her.

“I suppose the pearls can be fake?” he queried.

“Of course. Everyone knows it’s nearly impossible to tell the difference between real and faux pearls by sight alone.”

“It’s nice to know your 12-step plan is accessible to the masses.”

She began flipping through the clothes hanging in his closet. “If you’re going to mock it, this exercise isn’t going to work.”

“Don’t worry. I’m taking it very seriously.” He paused. “So what basics do you advise men to take to a deserted island with them?”

“Prince Charming doesn’t need a list of essentials,” she said, matching his irreverent tone, “because for men, fashion is all about the basics. You know, suits, ties…a tux.”

“Great. Looks like I already have it covered.”

“Yes, but a pair of jeans would be useful,” she said, glancing back at him. “Men have the opposite problem from women, and that’s an inability to move beyond the essentials.”

“I own a pair of jeans.”

“That are how old—?”

He eyed her. “Nothing much escapes you, I can tell.”

She gave him a modest smile. “You hired me, you get the full extent of my expertise.”

“All right, how about this?” he countered. “I like my jeans, even if I don’t get to wear them much these days.”

“Yes, I know. Because you do a lot of business travel. We’ll need to do something about that. In the meantime, let’s get you into something your old college buddies won’t recognize.”

Lauren hoped if she kept concentrating on the task at hand, she’d keep illicit thoughts at bay. Authority and male power clung to him like a second skin, and she felt diminutive and feminine in contrast.

He looked at her bemusedly. “You know, I don’t let just anyone talk to me this way. Those who work for me never do, and even my business rivals know better.”

His look turned thoughtful. “This isn’t how I remember you.”

“Things can change in a few years,” she forced herself to say. She’d vowed never again to be so vulnerable…so naive.

“I can see that.”

They were drifting into dangerous territory, so she faced the closet again and tapped her lips with her index finger. “I’m thinking Helmut Lang on the jeans.”

“No way.”

She glanced at him. “If you were a denim fanatic, I’d suggest Japanese jeans made from organic cotton and natural dyes.”

“What’s wrong with Levi’s?”

“Nothing. It depends on the message you want to send.” The thought of him filling out a formfitting pair of Levi’s sent a wave of heat through her. “Actually, it wouldn’t hurt to inject an element of everyman into your image. It might be a nice balance, particularly if what you said in our interview is true and you’re looking for a down-to-earth woman.”

“I am.”

“All right, then.” Her gaze went back to his closet. “Let’s see if we can wake things up a bit.”

“No.”

“Real men wear pink.”

Matt eyed the dress shirt in Lauren’s hand. “Not flamingo pink.”

This afternoon’s shopping trip hadn’t been going as he’d expected. They’d hit some of Boston’s upscale men’s stores, ending up in Neiman Marcus.

As far as Matt could tell, Lauren was intent on softening his hard edges. Her idea appeared to be to make him seem like less of a hard-driving business executive so, with any luck, he’d become less of one, as well.

Not a chance, he wanted to warn her.

She sighed. “I see I’ll have to introduce you to P. Diddy’s fashion line.”

“Stick to Ralph Lauren Polo. You might have better luck.”

“You know, if I really wanted to recommend something trendy, I’d suggest bespoke clothing.”

“Bespoke?”

“Handmade.”

He made a sound of disbelief. He had his suits custom-made, but hand sewn was a different matter.

“Just for the record, the shade we were talking about is called fiesta berry.”

“They can call it lucky gambler’s red, but I won’t be wearing it.”

A middle-aged salesman approached, wearing a polite smile. “May I offer some assistance?”

“Thanks, but we were just leaving.”

Lauren smiled apologetically at the clerk. “We’re looking for something casual, but we seem to be having a difference of opinion.”

The man nodded. “Wives sometimes have a different opinion from their husbands.”

A look of embarrassment crossed Lauren’s face. “We’re not—”

“What my wife is trying to say,” he cut in, “is that we’re not looking just for casual clothing. She’s trying to soften my image at work, too.”

Lauren opened her mouth, but before she could say anything more, he took her elbow and steered her toward the salesman. “Come along, sweetheart. Let’s see what he can show us.”

To the salesclerk, he said, “Let’s start with some casual pants.”

“Very good,” the salesman said. “If you’ll follow me…?”

As they walked toward another section of the store, Lauren muttered, “What are you doing? If anyone recognizes you and thinks we’re an item, or worse, that you’re secretly married, you’ll undermine everything we’re trying to accomplish.”

“Don’t worry,” he said easily. “I’m the kind of action hero who is invisible to everyone but husband-hunting females.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “Really? And your superhero powers would be—?”

“I’d show you, but they’re best demonstrated privately.”

She compressed her lips. “I don’t know why he assumed we’re married. Neither of us is wearing a wedding band.”

“Not everyone wears a ring. Besides, girlfriends don’t pick out a man’s clothes, wives do.”

She opened her mouth again.

“If he thinks we’re married, he’ll listen to you. Otherwise, he’ll keep addressing me.”

“You put me on the spot.”

“Learn to ask for what you want. That’s the problem with women.”

She pulled her elbow from his grasp. “We’ll have to work on your unfortunate tendency to put the words problem and women in the same sentence.”

“When have I done that?” he said mildly. Ever since she’d arrived 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.”

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.”