Harte Strings: The Billionaire Matchmaker, Part Two (10 page)

“We’ll see how good you are after I’ve tried it and I decide whether it works or not.”

I smiled. “You’re just surprised I found a flaw. You didn’t think I would. Arrogance!” I laughed.

“Not really.” He shrugged. “I’ve been made over a time or two. If you’d found something really egregious, I’d have to fire a few people and ask for my money back. As it is, my skincare specialist is in trouble.”

“You are
so
metro,” I said. But he wasn’t, really. “Shall we move on with this interview and get back to business? I need information about your likes and dislikes in women so I can screen my current pool of matches to find women who are compatible with you and get you out on the dating scene.

“We need to build a profile of your ideal woman before we can start our PR campaign. Aren’t we talking to the PR firm tomorrow?”

He nodded. “We are. But I still think this is overkill. Just make me some fake matches and be done with it.”

I shook my head. “Aren’t you the one who just insisted you get the full treatment?” I laughed shakily. “I think it’s important for you to actually go through the process so that: A, you understand the business from the client side, B, understand how I work, and C, are familiar with the matchmaking process so that you can speak intelligently and authentically about it in interviews, of which I hope there will be many. And—where am I?”

“D, I believe.” He wore an adorably sexy smirk.

I took a deep breath. “Oh. Yes. Exactly. D. And D, you just might learn something about yourself and which kind of woman you prefer.”

He shook his head. “I like
all
women.”

“I doubt that.” I shot him my skeptical look.

“I do.” He nodded emphatically.

“Equally?” I had him on the ropes. “Witchy women? Bitchy women? Stupid women with yellowing teeth and bad breath—”

He held up his hands. “All right. I give up. You got me. Maybe not
equally
.”

“Good. Now that we’ve settled that and gotten the truth out of you, we can get down to work and find out what kind of woman you like most.

“Every woman is unique, of course. And all generalizations are false. But…” I held up a finger. “I’ve loosely grouped women into several broad categories that I find men generally prefer—the cute and perky cheerleader type, the girl next door, the sexpot—”

He leered at me.

“Stop that!” I pointed at him and shook my head. “Let’s not be
too
shallow.”

He laughed. “Got it. Just shallow enough. Go on.”

I cleared my throat. “As I was saying, the sexpot, the exotic, and the intellectual.” I watched him closely to see if he scoffed at the last one.

Instead, he appeared to be thinking.

“Which one do you think most of my wealthy clients prefer?” I asked.

“If I’d known there was going to be a test, I would have studied.” He didn’t look like he was taking this seriously at all.

I skewered him with a look.

He laughed.

“Well?” I tapped my fingers on the arm of the sofa in a blatant show of impatience. It was a test to see how he acted under pressure. I wanted an authentic answer from him. “Think carefully before you answer. I’ll give you a hint: this type of woman is the hardest for me to find.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t need the hint, but thanks. The question is easy—the intellectual.”

My mouth nearly fell wide open. I caught my jaw from hitting the floor just in time. Given all the mythology about wealthy men wanting trophy wives, most people guessed the sexpot.

He laughed again, deeply. “I got the right answer! You didn’t expect it, did you?”

I’d written a book on matchmaking. But I hadn’t discussed this topic. “Where’s your cheat sheet?” I held my hand out for it like a stern schoolteacher.

His eyes twinkled. “No cheating necessary. All I had to do was think of my friends. Intelligence is hot in a woman. What man wouldn’t fall for a woman who can banter wittily? Who’s well read and well versed?

“Beauty fades; everyone knows that. The truth is, beauty fading is a given. Sometimes the mind fails. But not necessarily. And one other thing is absolutely certain: beauty fades faster than wit. If a man wants a long-term relationship with a woman, it’s much smarter for him to pick his intellectual match. And someone who makes him laugh.”

My heart, which was already soft for him, became that much mushier. “Very wise.”

He laughed again. “You’re measuring your words. It’s written all over your face. What you want to say is that it’s very mature, very non-Neanderthal of me. You’re surprised at how deep and non-superficial I am.”

“Your words…” I said. But he was dead on. In a way. “So if you know the right answer, why do you usually go for the sexpots, the sirens, the vixens? A casual perusal of your dating history makes it pretty clear what kind of woman you prefer.”

To my surprise, he shrugged, looking amused. “That’s easy. Social pressure. You wouldn’t believe the pressure we billionaires are under to date the beautiful women—models, actresses, singers.

“The locker room talk at the club is never about the intellectual one of the guys just banged. When was the last time you saw the gossip rags gush about a billionaire dating a Nobel Prize winner? An important circuit judge? Or a scientist who’s just found a cure for a horrible disease? Unless she’s also smoking hot. And then the intellectual side of her is downplayed, a footnote to her beauty.”

I didn’t reply.

“It’s like high school on a grander scale. The popular guys only date the popular girls. The sexpots are the popular girls. Billionaires can get them.” It was almost like he was speaking tongue-in-cheek.

Unfortunately, there was a lot of truth in what he said.

“Not all billionaires,” I countered. “Bill Gates didn’t marry a supermodel. He married an intelligent woman he worked with at Microsoft.”

“That was ages ago. I respect him for it. If I ever marry, I’ll marry who I want to. And not give a damn if she’s a supermodel, as long as
I
think she’s hot.”

Well, at least I had some sort of chance.

Lazer paused, studying me closely. “What kind of woman are you?”

“I’m not the subject of this matchmaking session,” I said as I picked up my laptop from the ottoman. “What kind of woman I see myself as makes no difference.”

There was no way now that I was telling him that I saw myself as an intellectual. “The main thing is to figure what kind of a woman you want. I take it you’d like an intellectual?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Sure. If I were looking for a woman to spend the rest of my life with. But, as I plan to keep trading one woman for the next beautiful one, a sexpot will suit me just fine. I’ll be on to the next, younger model long before anyone’s beauty fades.”

I almost rose to his bait. “I’ll just put you down for an intellectual, while you’re pretending to look for a match,” I said as I tapped it into my laptop. “With sexpot as your second choice.”

“You’re keeping a file on me?”

“I keep files on all my clients,” I said. “You don’t expect me to memorize every detail of every client, do you?” I smiled at him. “Don’t worry. This laptop is password protected and secured with the best security software available.”

“I’m not worried,” he said. “Tell me this—have you categorized men into groups that women find attractive?”

“Absolutely!” I nodded.

“What category did your late husband fall into?”

“He was a hero,” I responded without hesitating or thinking about it.

“And the other types of men?”

“Very similar to types of women,” I said. “The boy next door, the intellectual, the handyman, the protector, the sugar daddy, the bad boy, and the playboy.”

“What type would you say I am?”

I couldn’t tell whether he was fishing for a compliment. His expression was masked.

“Please!” I said. “You’re blatantly obvious. We’re going to market you as a playboy and a bit of a bad boy. It will bring the women in.”

“And the type of man most women want?”

“You mean the kind of man most of my successful, intelligent, beautiful marriage-minded female clients want?”

He nodded.

“They want a man who’s smart and witty and can make them laugh. The intellectual, of course.”

His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. What was going on in that mind of his?

“That hasn’t been my experience. Or that of most of my friends.”

“They want the intellectual,” I said. “Believe me. But they have to be attracted to him physically, too. Sometimes all he needs is a little polish and a little work on his moves.

“Moving on,” I said, and cleared my throat again. “That was just the introduction to my Dating Declutter. The first real step to determining the kind of mate you want begins with evaluating your past relationships and making a list of the attributes you liked and disliked in your former girlfriends. The goal is to see if a pattern emerges so we can pinpoint any dating mistakes. We want to correct those.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t make dating mistakes.”

I raised an eyebrow right back at him and laughed. “You don’t? Not ever?”

“Not
now
.” He understood my meaning. “That proposal is ancient history.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.” I took a deep breath. “If you didn’t make any mistakes, you’d be in a happily committed long-term relationship that you’d have no desire to leave.”

His skepticism may as well have been written in the sky, it was so obvious.

“Once we see what mistakes you’re making, we can make a list of your absolute must-haves in a partner, as well as your definite deal breakers. We all have them. Some can be as simple as she snaps her gum or bites her nails.”

“How long do you have?” He glanced pointedly at his watch. “Isn’t Austin’s appointment in a few minutes? My list of exes is long. Depending on how far back you want me to go—”

I shook my head. “I said
girlfriends
, not one-night stands and hookups. You have to have dated them at least a month and had more than four consecutive dates with them.” I paused, watching him with evil amusement. “By that standard, I’m expecting your list to be on the short side.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “You’re not going to make your list here and now. It’s your homework. I want you to spend some quiet time really thinking about it. Deeply, introspectively, meditatively. It’s not spur-of-moment, off-the-top-of-your-head stuff.”

I handed him a worksheet I’d made for my clients to fill out. “We’ll discuss this next time,” I said.

He didn’t move. “I almost forgot.” He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a small resealable zipper bag, and handed it to me. “This came a few days ago.”

I took the bag from him and smiled as I pulled out the contents. “A heart lock and key!” I turned it over in my hand. “But how did you know?”

He grinned.

“You damned cheater!” I said. “The agency had three good concepts. How did you know we’d choose this one?”

He shrugged and tapped his head. “I’m clairvoyant.”

“You’re crazy is what you are if you think I believe that. You’ll have to work harder, Mr. Copperfield.” I shook my head. “You had swag made for each one, you filthy rich billionaire.”

He laughed as I studied the lock.

It was beautiful, custom-made, one-inch, heart-shaped, shiny, gold-plated, and engraved with
Pair Us on Lake Union
and our logo. It even had a heart-shaped key.

I turned the lock over in my hand, carefully examining it. “Find the key to your heart,” I murmured, repeating the catchphrase we’d decided on just a few hours ago. “The lock is beautiful! Perfect. Good quality. The engraving and logo look classy. As good as the sketches the agency showed us.”

He nodded, watching me as I tried the key in the lock.

“And it works!” I shouldn’t have been so excited about that.

“Of course it works.” He rolled his eyes playfully. “It has very nice action, too. I wouldn’t trust it to safeguard my most valuable possession, but it’ll do for our purposes.”

“How much will these cost, with the engraving?” I asked, still studying it.

“In bulk, they’re perfectly reasonable, especially considering the clientele we’re going after. If we have to, we can give them out based on the matchmaking package the client picks. Silver locks or stainless steel for less expensive packages.”

“Will we offer free engraving so the couple can put their initials on them?”

“I don’t see why not.”

As I reached to hand the lock back to Lazer, our fingers brushed. There was that electricity between us again. A spark literally leaped between us. We both jerked back our hands and laughed.

“Shocking,” he said.

But the reaction wasn’t purely due to static electricity.

He closed my fingers over the lock and squeezed my hand. “Keep it. That one’s yours.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You think there’s a match out there somewhere for this matchmaker?” I laughed a little nervously.

“If there is, by your own admission, you’re headed to the right place. We have a bigger pool of eligible men than Manhattan.”

I wondered if he was including himself in that number. I laughed again, genuinely amused. “You’re so reassuring.”

“I’m not one of your girlfriends. I don’t do reassuring.”

His phone rang. “Excuse me a second.” He grabbed it. “A text from Riggins. It can wait until we’re through.”

“I’d like to meet the duke and his wife.”

“I’m sure you will.” Lazer’s eyes sparkled with promise.

At his words, my matchmaking self warred with my dating self. Making unrealistic future plans with someone soon—bad. Talking about the future in a vague way—good. But we were business partners, so what did that mean?

I was parsing his every word way too much.

He stood to leave. “I’ll tell Austin you’re ready for him.”

As I waited for Austin to arrive, my mind raced. I had to win Lazer’s heart without using my body. I had to find him matches and pray they weren’t right for him. While I decided whether he was really right for me.

It was a herculean, nearly impossible task. The greatest of my matchmaking career.