Underneath It All. Nancy Warren

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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.” СКАЧАТЬ