She was not looking forward to announcing her intentions to her family. She knew only too well that the news would not be greeted with wild enthusiasm in the Harte clan. But she had made her plans. The only thing standing between her and her new profession was Gabe Madison. He was the last client left on her active list.
Unfortunately, getting rid of him was proving more difficult than she had anticipated.
Gabe came to a halt in front of her desk, shoved aside one edge of his sleekly cut jacket and hooked his thumb in his belt.
“Let’s get to the bottom line here,” he said. “You want to ditch me because I’m a Madison and you’re a Harte.”
She raised her eyes to the ceiling, seeking patience and forbearance. When she got no help from that direction, she took a deep breath instead.
“That’s got nothing to do with this,” she said. “I don’t give a darn about the family feud. Even if I did, I could hardly use it as a reason to drop you from my list now that your brother and my sister are married.”
“Just because Rafe and Hannah got together doesn’t mean that you’ve changed your opinion about the rest of us Madisons.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gabe, it was our grandfathers who started the feud. I couldn’t care less about that old nonsense.”
“Yeah?” He gave her a razor-sharp smile. “You mean that you really believe that I’m capable of making a long-term commitment?”
The sarcasm was too much. She had been through a lot since the day Gabe had shown up here in her office, demanding to sign on as a client. The way he had demolished her private fantasies was the least of it.
“I think you’re perfectly capable of a long-term commitment,” she said. “But it looks to me like you’ve already made it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not in a relationship.”
“Yes, you are. You’ve got a very serious, very committed, one hundred percent exclusive relationship with Madison Commercial.”
“Madison Commercial is my company,” he said. “Of course I’m committed to it. That’s got nothing to do with getting married.”
“That company is your passion, Gabe. You’ve devoted your entire life to building that business.”
“So what?”
“You’re a Madison,” she said, thoroughly exasperated now. “As you just pointed out, nothing comes between a Madison and his passion.”
“Damn, thisis about me being a Madison.” He jerked his thumb out of his belt and planted his hands flat on her desk. “Youare biased against me because our families have a history.”
“It’s not our family history that is the problem here.” She could feel her temper rising. She had a nasty suspicion that her face was flushed. Probably an unpleasant shade of red. “You’rethe problem.”
“Are you telling me that just because I’m running a successful corporation, I can’t commit to a wife?”
That gave her pause.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said carefully. “But I do think that you’re going to have to refocus if you want to make a relationship work.”
“Define refocus.”
She sighed. “You’re going about this all wrong, Gabe.”
“I’m trying to use a logical, rational, scientifically based technique to find a wife. I would have thought you, of all people, would appreciate that approach.”
“Why? Because I’m a Harte and you Madisons think all Hartes have ice water in their veins?”
“You do own and operate a computerized matchmaking firm, don’t you? Some people would say your line of work requires a pretty cold-blooded approach to marriage.”
Damn. She would not allow Gabriel Madison to make her feel awkward right here in her own office. She was a Harte, after all. Hartes did not put up with this sort of behavior from Madisons.
“There’s a difference between going about the process of finding a mate in an intelligent, logical manner and going about it in a cold-blooded fashion,” she said evenly.
“And I’m being cold-blooded, is that it?”
“Look, you’re the one who filled out the questionnaire that I fed into my computer program, not me.”
There was a beat or two of silence. He watched her with a shuttered look.
“What was wrong with the way I filled it out?” he asked a little too softly.
She tapped the printouts in front of her. “According to these results, you want a robot for a wife.”
“That’s crazy.” He straightened and shoved his fingers through his dark hair. “If that’s the conclusion your idiotic program came up with, you’d damn well better see about getting some new software.”
“I don’t think the program is at fault here.”
“A robot, huh?” He nodded once. “Maybe that’s what went wrong on those five dates you arranged for me. Maybe you sent me out with five robots. Come to think of it, they were all a little too thin and there was something very computerlike about the way they tried to grill me on the subject of my portfolio.”
“You got exactly what you said you wanted, according to the questionnaire,” she said very sweetly. “There was no strong emotion in any of your responses except when it came to the importance of not being matched with what you callarty types and your insistence on a prenuptial agreement.”
“What’s the problem with the lack of strong emotions?”
“For one thing, it makes it extremely difficult to find a match for you.”
“I would have thought taking emotion out of the equation would have made it easier to match me, not harder.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’m a big believer in approaching marriage logically. I’ve built this business on that premise. But you’ve gone to extremes. You’re hunting for a wife as if you were interviewing a potential employee for an executive slot at Madison Commercial. It won’t work.”
“Why not?” His eyes were emerald hard. His voice fell to an even softer pitch. “Because I’m a Madison and Madisons can’t do anything without getting emotional?”
“That does it.” She powered down the laptop. “It has nothing to do with the fact that you’re a Madison. You can’t expect me to find you a proper match when you insist on concealing your true feelings on certain matters.”
“Concealing my true feelings?”
“Yes.” She closed the lid of the laptop, reached down, opened a drawer and removed her shoulder bag.
“Just a minute. Are you accusing me of having deliberately shaded a few of my answers on that questionnaire?”
“No.” She straightened and slung the strap of the bag over her shoulder. “I don’t think youshaded a few of your responses. I think you lied through your teeth about everything except prenuptial agreements and arty types.”
“Why the hell would I lie on that stupid questionnaire?”
“How should I know? You’d need to discuss that with a trained therapist. I can give you the name of one, if you want to pursue the matter. He’s right here in this building. Three floors down. Dr. J. Anderson Flint.”
Gabe’s expression hardened. “His name certainly popped up in a hurry in the course of this conversation.”
“Probably because he’s on my mind at the moment.” She glanced at the roman numerals etched on the jade green face of her watch. “I’m on my way to his office.”
“You’re seeing a therapist?”
“In a manner of speaking.” She went to the small closet behind the desk, opened it and removed the hooded, ankle-length rain cloak inside. “Anderson is doing research for a book. He wants to interview me.”
“Why?”
“Because he specializes in treating people who have problems in their uh, physical relationships with their partners.”
“In other words, he’s a sex therapist?”
She could feel herself turning red again. “I believe sex therapy constitutes the major portion of his practice, yes.”
“And he wants to interview you. Well, now, that would certain
ly raise a few eyebrows back in Eclipse Bay.”
“Try to get your mind out of the gutter.” She scooped the laptop off her desk and stuffed it into a waterproof case. “I’ve got a very high success rate here at Private Arrangements. Anderson feels my computer program is the key. He is looking for ways to incorporate the principles of that program into a useful guide for couples seeking committed relationships.”
“You sure can’t prove your very high success rate by me.”
“No.” She picked up the case containing the laptop and walked around the corner of her desk. “I admit you are a glaring failure. Most of my clients, however, are satisfied with the results they get here at Private Arrangements.”
And I intend to quit while they all feel that way,she thought, heading for the door.
Gabe grabbed his black trench coat off the coatrack. “Your matchmaking program sucks in my opinion.”
“You’ve made your feelings on the subject quite clear.” She opened the door. “And that is why I’m releasing you from your contract with Private Arrangements.”
“You’re not releasing me, you’re firing me.”
“Whatever.” She flipped the bank of wall switches, plunging the office into stygian gloom.
“What the hell? Hold on, damn it.” Gabe hoisted the monogrammed leather briefcase sitting on the floor near the coatrack. “You can’t just walk out on me like this.”
“I’m not walking out, I’m closing my office.” She stepped into the hall and jangled her keys in a pointed fashion. “I just told you, I’m on my way to see Dr. Flint.”
He shrugged into his trench coat, leaving it unbuttoned. “You’re certainly in a rush to keep the appointment. A sex therapist. I still can’t believe it.”
“I don’t have an appointment. I’m just going to drop by his office. I need to tell him something important. Not that it’s any of your business. Furthermore, I don’t like the sarcastic tone of your voice. I’ll have you know that Anderson is a thorough-going professional.”
“Is that so? A professional sex therapist.” Gabe moved out into the hall. “Guess I should show some respect. They do say it’s the oldest profession. No, wait, maybe I’ve got that mixed up with another line of work.”
She would not dignify that with a response, she thought. She locked the office door with a quick twist of her hand and dropped the keys into her shoulder bag. Whirling around, she strode toward the elevators.
Gabe fell into step beside her. “Don’t forget, you owe me another date.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I only got five dates, remember? The contract guarantees six matches.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’ll refund one-sixth of the fee you paid me.”
“I don’t want my money back, I want my sixth date.”
“Better take the money.” She came to a halt in front of the bank of elevators and stabbed the call button. “It’s all you’re going to get.”
He flattened one hand on the wall beside her head, leaned in very close and lowered his voice to a low, dangerous pitch that made tiny chills chase down her spine.
“Trust me,” Gabe said very deliberately. “You don’t want a lawsuit over this.”
She spun around to face him and found him standing much too close.
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” she asked.
“Just making an observation.”
She gave him a frigid smile. “I can see the headlines now.President of Madison Commercial Threatens Lawsuit over Cancelled Date. Talk about looking ridiculous.”
“You owe me that date.”
“Back off, Gabe. We both know you’re not going to sue me. You’d look like a fool in the press and that’s the last thing you’d want. Just think of what the publicity would do to the image of your company.”
Gabe said nothing-just looked at her the way Roman gladiators had no doubt studied each other before an event in the arena. Behind her the elevator doors opened with a soft sighing hiss. She turned quickly and got into the cab.
Gabe got in behind her.
She punched the floor number she wanted and then, without much hope, she also selected the lobby button. Maybe Gabe would take the hint and remain in the elevator when she got off on Anderson’s floor.
She stood tensely near the control panel, watching the doors close. She was very aware of Gabe there at her shoulder, dominating the small space, using up all the oxygen so that she could hardly breathe.
“Admit it,” she said when she could no longer stand the silence. “You lied on that questionnaire.”
“The questionnaire has nothing to do with this. You owe me a date.”
“You didn’t enter the truth when you made your responses. You put down what you thought the truth should be.”
He quirked one brow. “There’s a difference?”
“Night and day in most cases.”
The elevator doors opened. She walked quickly out into the hall.
Gabe glided out after her. So much for hoping he would stay on board and descend to the lobby.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said. “I told you, I’m on my way to talk to Dr. Flint.”
“I’ll wait until you’re finished.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not? Doesn’t he have a waiting room?”
“I don’t believe this.”
“I’m not leaving until you guarantee me a sixth match.”
“We’ll talk about it some other time. Give me a call tomorrow.”
“We’ll talk about it today.”
“I refuse to let you push me around like this.”
“I haven’t touched you,” Gabe said.
She would not lower herself to his level, she thought. She was a mature, sophisticated woman. More to the point, she was a Harte. Hartes did not engage in public scenes. That was more of a Madison thing.
The only option to yelling at Gabe was to pretend he was not right here, shadowing her down the hall. It was not easy.
Obviously she had pushed her luck with Private Arrangements, she thought morosely. She had waited a little too long to go out of business. If only she had stopped accepting clients the daybefore Gabe had walked into her office.
She reached the door markedDr. J. Anderson Flint, opened it and walked into the waiting room. Gabe flowed in behind her, Dracula in a very expensive black trench coat.
The first clue that the situation had the potential to deteriorate further came when she noticed that Anderson’s secretary, Mrs. Collins, was not behind her desk. She realized that she had been counting on the woman’s presence to ensure that Gabe behaved himself.
She glanced quickly around the serene, vaguely beige room, hoping to spot the secretary somewhere in the shadows. There was no one in sight.
The muffled strains of some loud, hard-core, sixties-era rock music reverberated through the wooden panels of the closed door that separated Anderson’s inner office from the waiting room.
Her sense of foreboding increased for some unaccountable reason.
“It looks like Anderson’s secretary has gone home early today,” she said. “He’s probably working on his notes.”
“Sounds like rock music.”
“Anderson enjoys classic rock.”
“You know him pretty well, huh?”
“We met last month in the coffee shop downstairs.” She knocked lightly on the inner door. “We have a lot in common. Similar professional interests.”
“Is that right?” Gabe said. “You know, I don’t think he can hear you above the music. He’s really got it cranked up in there.”
The music was loud and getting louder and more intense by the second.
She twisted the knob and opened the door.
And stopped short at the sight of J. Anderson Flint stretched out on his office sofa. He was naked except for a pair of very small, very red bikini briefs that did nothing to conceal his erection. His hands were bound at the wrists above his head. A blindfold was s
ecured around his eyes.
A solidly built woman dressed in a skintight leather catsuit, long black leather gloves, and a pair of five-inch stiletto heels stood over him. She had one leg balanced on the back of the sofa, the other braced on the coffee table. Her back was to the door but Lillian could see that she held a small velvet whip in her right hand and a steel-studded dog collar in her left.
Neither of the room’s occupants heard the door open because the music was building to its crashing finale.
Lillian tried to move and could not. It was as if she had been frozen in place by some futuristic ray gun.
“Similar professional interests, you say?” Gabe murmured into her left ear.
His undisguised amusement freed her from the effects of the invisible force field that held her immobile. With a gasp, she managed to turn around. He blocked her path, his attention focused on the scene taking place on the sofa. He smiled.
“Excuse me,” she croaked. She put both hands on his chest and shoved hard to get him out of the way.
Gabe obligingly moved, stepping aside and simultaneously reaching around her to pull the door shut on the lurid scene.
The music thundered to its rousing climax.
Lillian fled through the tasteful waiting room out into the hallway. She did not look back.
Gabe caught up with her at the elevator.
An eerie silence gripped the corridor for the count of five.
“Dr. Flint obviously believes in a hands-on approach to sex therapy,” Gabe remarked. “I wonder just how he plans to incorporate your computer program into his treatment plans.”
This could not be happening, she thought. It was some kind of bizarre hallucination, the sort of thing that could turn a person into a full-blown conspiracy theorist. Maybe some secret government agency was conducting experiments with chemicals in the drinking water.
Or maybe she was losing it. She’d been under a lot of stress lately, what with making the decision to close down Private Arrangements and change careers. Having Gabe as a client hadn’t helped matters, either.
No doubt about it, stress combined with secret government drinking water experiments could account for what she had just seen in Anderson’s office.
“I think you need a drink,” Gabe said.
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