Danika strolled in with her usual confidence and combativeness on full display. She was a journalist. She didn't back down or play nice.
I narrowed my eyes and studied her, hopefully unnervingly. She'd certainly hit a nerve in me. "Danika—"
"I'm not going to beat around the bush. I've been tasked with writing a story about your little venture. Human interest piece. I could make it so much more." She slid casually into the chair across the desk from me and leaned forward, bracing her hands against the edge of the desk.
Combative, I thought. Definitely on the offensive.
"If I had the inside scoop," she said.
"Is that so?" I shrugged. I didn't care. Why should I care?
She raised an eyebrow.
She was an attractive woman, I begrudgingly admitted to myself. A bulldog on the job. Intense. But disarmingly attractive, even if she was past her prime for the New York marriage market. She was a freelance journalist who wrote for some of the most influential newspapers and magazines on the East Coast.
Like most people in publishing circles in New York, she was elegantly dressed in black—slender black slacks, tight black sweater, lots of dangling white gold jewelry. I have an eye. I could distinguish between silver and white gold with stunning accuracy. She was obviously a woman who'd done well for herself. Which was why she was so peeved that the good, single men of this city didn't recognize her worth. She didn't like being considered a dime-a-dozen type of woman. Not when she was clearly superior. In her own mind, at least.
And maybe she was. But not compared to a woman ten years younger than she was. Not in the eyes of the few men here of her class who wanted wives. Like so many New Yorkers, Danika had squandered her prime husband-catching years pursuing a career and looking down on her friends and peers who'd settled for domesticity. Now she was paying the price. That was what her anger was really all about. Her carefully crafted life plan had fallen apart when the eligible men of this city refused to cooperate on her timeline.
And me, of course. I was public enemy number one in her mind for turning her down as a client. Even though I'd only done it for her own good. Earlier in the year I'd had to lower the maximum age for new female clients because that was what the market demanded. There was no age bias on my part. I was almost aged out of my own client pool.
I had no doubt she would throw herself into making her marriage as successful as her career. If she were ever given a chance at it. She was that kind of woman.
She had just barely aged out of my client base. She looked good for her age. Maybe even young for her age. I didn't believe in false advertising. Which was why I'd turned her down. Looking younger didn't mean you were younger.
She narrowed her eyes to match the look I was giving her, studying me for a chink in my armor. "I can make it worth your while." She paused again. "I'm not saying all the publicity will be positive or that my story or stories—I like to make the most of my research and sell to as many markets as possible—will be glowing. But they will be fair. If your venture is all I'm hearing it's supposed to be, you won't have a problem."
"What exactly is it you want?" I never committed until I had all the terms of service before me. "You want to interview me from time to time?"
She shook her head like she couldn't believe I was so naïve. "I want to tag along."
It was hard not to sputter. "Tag along where?"
"To Seattle," she said, as if this wasn't an outrageous request.
"You want to be an embedded reporter and come to Seattle with me?" My mind was running with possibilities. "So you can steal my men for free?" I laughed, with an edge. "Are you fishing for a billionaire? My billionaire?" Did I sound too possessive? Well, he was my billionaire in the client sense, at least. "Do you want access to my pond, my secrets, my skills?"
Her eyes popped wide open. "Are you accusing me of going after a story so I can get a free matchmaking ride?"
I didn't back down. "I'm saying I wouldn't put it past you to find a back door in." I paused intentionally for dramatic effect. She knew what I was saying. "My matchmaking process is proprietary."
"You wrote a bestselling book about your precious process!"
You should have seen the indignant look on her face.
I nodded. "True enough. But that was only the generalities. Not the down-and-dirty secrets. Pair Us is a new, innovative, cutting-edge idea," I said, paraphrasing Lazer and his English interview. "We're testing proprietary software and techniques."
"I'll sign a nondisclosure," she said, as if that settled it.
I gave her a deadpan look. "Do I have to say it? Why should I trust a reporter? One who specifically wants the inside story? One who has clearly hammered me in the papers for my honest stand in turning away clients for whom I would only be taking their money under false pretenses?"
"Look!" She slapped the desk, startling me. "What do I have to do to get this story?"
Chapter 2
Lazer Grayson
Witham House, England
It might surprise people to discover that I like babies. Always have. Not that I wanted one fulltime. Or cared to raise one. Not that the machinations of a duchess, no matter how lovely and sincere she was, could change my mind. But I was surprised just how much I enjoyed babies. How easy it was to coo at a one-month-old and hope for a fleeting smile.
The little earl was one of the cuter babies. One day he'd be a real heartbreaker. My little godson was already a heart stealer. Which pleased me tremendously. Someday his old godfather would teach him how to be a ladies' man. I could hardly wait.
Like grandchildren, godchildren are meant to be spoiled. Enjoyed while they're happy and then passed back to their parents. Children were so much more fun when they weren't your responsibility.
But if the duchess thought she was gaining in her campaign to win me over to the thought of fatherhood and marriage, she was mistaken. No, if anyone, or anything, was winning me over, it was Ashley and her damning coolness toward me.
As the guy, I was the one who was supposed to sleep with her, and, having gotten what I wanted, not call the next day. Or the next. Yeah, that sounded sexist. But it was based on hundreds of years of male/female history. It was the role we were each assigned. I walk out and go my merry way. She cries in a glass of white wine and checks her phone every three minutes to make sure it still works.
But this was an outrage. She walks out on me? Me? And then morphs into the Ice Queen. Totally professional, like all I was was a good screw? No. No. Not how it was done, babe.
I would not be the one with a broken heart. I refused to "wait by the phone." She wanted to play the game, freeze me out? Put me into the friend zone? No one put me in the friend zone unless I wanted to be there.
Nope. I was throwing myself into this dating game full force. I was going to be as charming and delicious as Seattle's Hottest Bachelor was supposed to be. I was going to prove that no matchmaker was a match for me. I could hardly wait. Let the game begin.
Was I being vengeful? Out to make a point? Regain my masculine pride and self-respect? You'd better believe it. A woman scorned was nothing compared to a ladies' man whose ego had taken a hit in the balls.
I traipsed through the woods on Riggins' enormous estate—it had taken us fifteen minutes to drive from the castle to this part of the woods—between Riggins and his groundskeeper Bird. There was a complicated relationship between Bird and Riggins. Bird was the biological father of the duchess' adopted sister. Bird's family had also been gamekeepers on the estate for hundreds of years. They knew the estate front and back. Riggins was a newcomer. All of this gave Bird a measure of power over the duke that an ordinary employee wouldn't have.
It was a good thing Bird was affable and easygoing. And Riggins was astute, savvy, and fair. And eager to please his duchess. Which was why we were on this shooting expedition in the first place when neither Riggins nor I were hunters. Hikers? Yes. I loved being outdoors and in the woods. Hunters? No.
I was
also the victim of cultural differences. In the States, going shooting can mean just that—shooting. I like shooting. At targets. At gun ranges. In England, going shooting means hunting for birds. In our case, pheasant.
Bird was along to show us the ropes, guide us through the woods, control the dog, and reload our guns. Because I was incapable of loading a shotgun myself? The Duke of Witham and I were supposed to make the kills.
"I stocked the pheasant population myself. Raised the birds and carefully managed the numbers," Bird had told us with pride earlier. He was like an excited boy before Christmas. "The numbers must be carefully managed, must be kept under control. Now's the time of year to thin the population and fill the duke's autumn table with fresh game."
Bird beamed. "The late duke was a hunter in his prime. But it's been decades since he was able to hunt." He'd turned to Riggins. "It's good to have a man in his prime back on the estate, sir. To do the shooting."
Bird was so eager and excited that Riggins and I were trying to work up a decent show of enthusiasm. It was either this or deer stalking, as the Brits called it. I would have called it deer hunting. We decided to leave the culling of the deer herd to Bird and his skilled marksmanship, and let the birds take their chances with us. The birds had gotten the better part of the deal, no doubt about it.
We had Riggins'—or, more accurately, one of Bird's—trusty bird dogs with us. Copper, a handsome English springer spaniel. A flushing dog rather than a pointing dog, as Bird had explained when he was schooling us on the details of hunting pheasants.
"Pheasants are runners," he'd said. "The buggers prefer to make a dash for it rather than an aerial escape. Which makes them trickier to get than if they flew. It takes a trained dog to flush the birds out and stay out of the way of buckshot and the hunter's aim. Copper"—he petted the dog—"is the dog for the job."
Riggins had extensive property. Picturesque. Nice to hike through. But at the rate we were going, his table was likely to be empty of fresh game fowl at dinner tonight.
Poor Copper. We were frustrating the dog. Copper ran out excitedly suddenly, flushing a big cock from the bush. Startling Riggins and me while Bird politely waited for us to take the shot.
If you've never been out in the quiet forest and heard a flushed pheasant flutter his wings, you've missed something. It's something to give your heart a start, even if you're looking for the birds. My heart needed a jolt, something, anything to get it off yearning for Ashley.
Copper was an expressive dog. Every time she ran out and flushed a bird, she did it with enthusiasm, returning to us for praise. If dogs could roll their eyes, she would have rolled hers at us.
She flushed more than our share of birds for us. But neither of us got one. The birds outran us. Poor Copper.
"Looks like we need to get in better running shape if we're going to get a bird." My stomach growled. "Copper looks like she's about to grab a bird and hold it down for us so we can shoot it. Like, what does she have to do?" I laughed.
"Running shape? Do what you like, but I'm not diving into the bushes after one of the little buggers." Riggins turned to Bird. "Sorry to disappoint. It looks like it's up to you to bag us some pheasant and make our chef happy."
Bird nodded, looking almost amused. "Yes, sir."
Riggins shrugged. "I'll get the hang of this. Eventually. I promise, Bird. It's been fun. Hasn't it, Lazer?"
"Oh, absolutely." I nodded.
"How about lunch?" Riggins said.
"I'm game."
Riggins raised an eyebrow. "I hope not."
I laughed. "Not that kind of game. Let's head back."
Riggins and I left Bird and Copper to continue the hunt, and jumped in our Jeep and headed back. When we came out of the woods, the castle was just visible on a hill in the distance.
Riggins shook his head and pointed toward a black wrought iron fenced area ahead. "I planned a picnic. It's too nice a day to waste indoors." He pointed to the fenced area. "There's a picnic area inside. I asked the staff to set something out for us there." He led the way.
I paused at the gated entrance to read the sign with its prominent skull and crossbones. "Danger. Don't eat the plants. Do not touch the plants or leave the path…
"Enjoy your visit to the Poison Garden?" I shot Riggins a look and raised my eyebrows. "Are you trying to tell me something? Should I be worried?"
He laughed. "Eh. There are all kinds of plants in there. Almost any plant is poisonous if you eat the wrong part of it. Come to think of it, almost anything can kill you in large enough quantities. Even water." He grinned. "The garden's beautiful this time of year. Wait until you see the orchard."
"The fine print warns to wear gloves when handling the plants," I said.
"Then don't touch the plants." He winked at me, unlocked the gate, and led the way to a table in the middle of the garden at the edge of an orchard.
Riggins was right. The trees were gorgeous—red, yellow, and orange, with blue sky peeking through them.
The table was well away from any dangerous plants, and laid out for us. A picnic basket sat on the table. I knew this trick of having the staff set up. This wasn't as much exertion as setting my forest table. There was a road and paths into the garden.
We unpacked the basket and sat down side by side to eat and enjoy the view. Riggins' cook was magnificent with a cold lunch. She had really packed a spread. Much too much for two men, even two hungry ones.
As Riggins unpacked the bounty, I looked askance at the individual pies that had been packed for us. "Four and twenty blackbirds?"
He laughed. "I hope not." He stuck a fork into his and shook his head. "Plain old meat pie. Watch that you don't drop any on the ground. If you do, don't pick it back up. You know, poison garden."
I rolled my eyes and dug into my pie. The walking and the fresh air had worked up an appetite in me.
Riggins leaned casually against the table and handed me a bottle of ale. "Tell me more about this matchmaking venture of yours. Are you serious about finding a wife? Or is this another one of your publicity stunts? Are you trying for Seattle's Hottest Bachelor for the third time? Don't get greedy, man."
I stared at him. So this was what this expedition had really been about. I raised an eyebrow. "Did Haley put you up to asking?"
"What do you think?"
I laughed. "Women."
"She's a little disappointed, actually, that someone beat her to the matchmaking punch. She'd love to set you up with some of the eligible noble ladies she's met here."
"You mean like Lady Rose?" I raised an eyebrow. "Haley isn't still jealous of her, is she? Does she want me to draw her off again? Kill two birds with one stone. Take Lady Rose off the market and make a settled man out of me? A billionaire for her former rival?"
Riggins laughed. "Rose and Haley have become friends of sorts. But there's no way Haley would be so cruel as to match you up with Rose. That would make Rose almost part of the family. A step-godmother to our little guy." He paused. "For reasons I can't explain, Haley likes you."
I laughed. "And I adore her."
"Watch yourself!" He elbowed me. "My duchess might have even considered you for her sister. But you're a little old for Sid."
"Old?" I cocked my head.
"Sid just turned twenty."
"That's only ten years." I stared him down. "Aren't you about that much older than Haley?"
"You're evading the question," he said, unruffled. "Are you serious about finding a wife?"
I shrugged. "This is just between us. Completely confidential?"
"Naturally."
"After you fill Haley in, you mean?" I said.
He laughed. "Of course. But don't worry. Haley can keep a secret."
"More publicity stunt than serious pursuit of a mate."
Riggins frowned. "Leading women on?"
I shook my head. "Any more than I already do by dating? No."
As the time approached, I was both dreading and looking forward to dating matche
s made for me by Ashley. What diabolical move would she make next? It had been parry and thrust between us since the beginning. I was going to show her. And she was going to show me.
I wouldn't put it past Ashley to take her revenge on me through the matches she made for me. She was a shrewd enough businesswoman to use them to build Pair Us to every advantage. I also believed she'd give in to a natural inclination to wield those matches like a weapon. Knowing her, she'd find a way to do both.
I still hadn't figured out what I'd done wrong with Ashley. The woman was an enigma. Usually I didn't have trouble reading and pleasing women. But everything I did, even when I did it with the best intentions, upset her. She was the one woman I wanted to impress more than anyone. And my skills were failing me.
"What's wrong?" Riggins said.
"What?"
"You're frowning." His eyes narrowed.
"Am I?" I'd been lost in thought.
"Dreading dating with supposed serious intent?" He was clearly amused at my expense. "Afraid someone might actually catch your interest?"
I didn't reply.
"Being married isn't the worst thing in the world."
"Now there's a ringing endorsement," I said, sounding every bit as sarcastic as I intended.
Riggins was obviously madly in love with his wife. I'd heard that was bad form among the British nobility. Or maybe that was only a myth from the arranged marriage days.
If I was honest, I was envious of his happiness.
"Having someone to spend your life with makes life a lot less lonely and more meaningful." He studied me. "You, of all people, starting a matchmaking service and developing a matchmaking app? It's so incongruous it's hard to wrap my head around."
"Not really," I said, wondering why more people didn't get it like Ashley did. "I'm a dating expert." I grinned. "It's a passion of mine."
"Expert?" He shook his head. "About dating? Maybe. But what do you know about finding a mate?"
I shook my head. "Everything. I've just never wanted to take a relationship to that extreme. Anyway, I have a matchmaker for that." I launched into a dissertation on the beauty of using a matchmaker. When I finished, Riggins was smirking.
Dating Lazer: The Billionaire Matchmaker, Part Four Page 2