Captivated By The Tycoon. Anna DePalo

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      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 sex, but proper dating etiquette was important in her book.

      He made a sound of disbelief. “All right, duly noted. A patient guy may be the ultimate female fantasy, but he is just a fantasy.”

      She smiled encouragingly. “Well, when we’re done, hopefully you’ll be the ultimate female fantasy.”

      And, judging from the way her body was humming, he wasn’t doing a half-bad job as it was.

      “I’ll start right now by taking your coat,” he said smoothly.

      “Thank you.”

      The brush of fingers at the nape of her neck sent shivers chasing down her spine.

      After depositing her coat in a closet, he said, “Let me show you around.”

      She tried to quell the spine-tingling sensations as he gave her a brief tour of the apartment.

      The kitchen was spacious, with glass-door cherrywood cabinets, a large marble-topped center island and Miele stainless steel appliances.

      In the formal dining room, the walls were painted red above ivory wainscoting and below ivory- painted molding. The chairs were upholstered in red and gold stripes, and several pieces, including the sideboard, looked as if they were antiques.

      Lauren couldn’t help contrasting Matt’s dining room with the modest one in the home in Sacramento she’d grown up in, where the chintz wallpaper had been put up by her mother and the furniture bore the dents and scratches of one too many feet, including hers and those of her younger sister and brother.

      When they moved on to Matt’s living room, she noted that this room at least was a nod to comfort. Sofas and armchairs, dressed in beige fabric and chocolate leather, clustered around a large fireplace.

      The den followed on from the living room. Builtin bookshelves lined two walls, while the windows showcased spectacular views of downtown Boston.

      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, СКАЧАТЬ