The Perils of Paulie (A Matchmaker in Wonderland)

by Katie MacAlister

  “I draw the line at having sex in the cars just to improve ratings,” Dixon said with a serious face that I thought indicated he was annoyed until I saw the glint of humor in his eyes.

  “Fine, but don’t complain later that I turned you down. I’d say yes to dinner, but my dad and stepmom are flying out to see the start of the race tomorrow. We’re doing dinner together.”

  “Ah,” he said, his expression smooth and unreadable. “Another time, perhaps.”

  I threw caution to the wind. I mean, I grabbed it with both hands, dug my fingers into it to get it to pay attention, and flung it away from me as hard as I could. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “You want me to meet your parents?” Something flashed through his eyes. It might have been surprise, or it might have been fear.

  “Not like that. I just thought if you don’t have anyone to eat dinner with, you’re welcome to come along with us. But perhaps you’d like to stay with your brother?”

  “I doubt Rupert would welcome me,” he said with a wry twist of his lips and a glance at where his brother was now very clearly flirting with Louise.

  “Then it’s settled. Dad said he’d meet me in the lobby of the hotel at seven. Is that OK with you?”

  “Yes, although it means missing the embarkation party with the other teams.”

  “That starts at eight, and we should be done with dinner by nine. We can go after that, if you like.”

  “That sounds agreeable,” he said politely, and I was suddenly possessed with the urge to grab him by his prim and proper head and kiss the daylights out of him. But instead of doing that, I simply gave him an innocent smile and returned to the Thomas Flyer to watch while Melody got a brief lowdown on how to drive the car.

  The rest of the morning was spent in final fittings for the costumes and a lunch where the official race rules were discussed.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t see Dixon at the lunch until it was over, so I sat with Tessa and Max and their friend.

  “Now, I know you’re all aware this is a race,” Roger told us as we finished off some excellent salmon en croute. “But we don’t want anyone risking his or her life just to garner the prize. Therefore, the official race committee has declared that the U.S. segment will consist of points which you obtain by hitting checkpoints in the allotted time. So there’s no sense in racing flat out to get to San Francisco as fast as you can—each night we’ll have a designated stop, and your time getting to that stop will be recorded. If you get to it too quickly, it means you have been speeding, and you will be penalized. Likewise, if you get there past the allowed time, you will also receive a penalty.”

  “That sounds smart,” Tessa told Max, who nodded.

  “We’ll see if it works. I suspect that most people will be champing at the bit to be the first one to each day’s destination.”

  “You can say that again,” I said. “Louise told Melody and me that if we make her lose any camera time, she’ll gut us with her nail scissors.”

  Max looked startled, but Tessa laughed. “I suspect your car is going to have the most fun.”

  “As you know,” Roger continued, “we will drive across the country on a variety of interstate highways. Although the original racers varied slightly from our route, for the most part our journey will mimic the path they took across the country. The route isn’t as direct as modern roads provide, so be sure to follow the instructions we give you and not a GPS unit’s directions. Once all active racers are in San Francisco, cars and drivers—as well as the film crew—will be loaded onto the two transport planes generously provided by our sponsor.” He named a company that I later found out provided petroleum to the Western world. “The flight to Beijing should take about sixteen hours. Following that, both you and the cars will be cleared through customs and the race will pick up anew. This time, however, it will be a race in the truest sense of the word, although, of course, we expect you to adhere to all local traffic laws and speed limits. The first person to follow the course route and reach Paris will win not only the race, but the twenty-thousand-dollar prize award for each member of the team.”

  “We could get the roof redone,” Tessa told Max. “Or maybe throw it toward that cottage in Scotland you’ve been eyeing.”

  “New car, and a trip to the Azores,” Max replied.

  “I could put a down payment on a flat,” Melody mused. “And go to Australia.”

  “What would you do with your money, Paulie?” Tessa asked.

  I thought. It wasn’t enough for me to get my own house, and I had a car. “I think I’d use it to send my dad and stepmom on an around-the-world cruise. Or at least as long of a cruise as the money would buy.”

  “How altruistic of you,” Tessa cried.

  I didn’t correct her by telling her my motive would be to get Daddy out of my hair for a few months. Instead I smiled and turned my attention back to Roger.

  “This afternoon we’ll allow you all to actually drive your cars at a location free from public traffic. Graham will be on hand in case there are any questions. This evening is the embarkation party, where we will film each of you on the eve of the great undertaking. You will not be in costume, but any thoughts you have about setting off on such a momentous journey should be saved for your individual filmed session.”

  I thought about what I’d say for that, but couldn’t think of much that would interest anyone.

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 20

  6:22 p.m.

  Dorcet Hotel, New York City

  Just a quickie update before I get ready for my date . . . er . . . dinner with Dixon. And Daddy and Angela, of course.

  We drove around an abandoned strip mall on Long Island and practiced parking, turning, backing up, and accelerating and stopping. Driving in the Thomas Flyer is an absolute hoot. Hard, but a hoot.

  “The first thing you’re going to notice are the three pedals on the floor,” Graham said when it was my turn to learn how to drive.

  “Yup,” I said. “Gas, brake, and—what, a clutch?”

  “No. Right is your brake, middle is your reverse, and left is the clutch.”

  “Um . . .” I looked down at my feet. “Where’s the gas, then?”

  “That lever on the right side of the steering wheel. What you do is push the clutch all the way to the floor, give it some gas, then let up on the gas and lift up your clutch foot.”

  I stalled it the first couple of times I tried to get moving, but at last I got the dance down and was soon zipping across the parking lot at a heady twenty miles an hour.

  “Louise worries me,” I told Melody later, once we were out of the subject’s hearing.

  Melody cast her a thoughtful look. “She doesn’t seem to be very good at telling the clutch from the brake, does she?”

  “That, and she’s so busy smiling at the car with the camera, she’s not paying attention to where she’s driving.”

  “Perhaps we can suggest she let us do the bulk of the driving,” Melody suggested.

  “She’s not going to want to do that if the cameras are on.”

  “No, but they won’t be filming us all of the time. If we can limit her driving to just film times, then we should have a greater chance at completing the race without . . . problems.”

  “Like crashing into something,” I added grimly.

  Crap. Must go fling myself in the shower and put my hair up. I wonder if it’s too late to add some color to it.

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 20

  7:31 p.m.

  Dandie’s Lion Restaurant, Manhattan, ladies’ room

  My father is an idiot.

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 20

  7:44 p.m.

  Dandie’s Lion Restaurant, Manhattan, ladies’ room

  Dixon is
an idiot, too.

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 20

  8:02 p.m.

  Dandie’s Lion Restaurant, Manhattan, ladies’ room (the attendant just asked if I have a UTI)

  Although he does know his cars. Dixon, that is, not Daddy. Hell. There’s Angela. More later.

  JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY

  21 July

  12:55 a.m.

  New York City

  I’m at a loss as to where to start about the evening’s events. I’d prefer never to remember some of them, but that’s cowardice speaking, so I will ignore my desire to heavily edit the happenings. I can do that when I publish the diary, after all.

  Let us begin with a full retelling of the evening.

  Paulie invited me to dinner with her after I explained about how I dislike people invading my personal space. At first, I was taken aback—how could she interpret a simple apology as an expressed desire to date her? I like her, despite the fact that she herself stated that she wants to get laid by one of the non-U.S. racers, but I’m determined not to let that color my opinion of her. After all, Rupert is already working his way through any and all American women who are willing, so why shouldn’t Paulie do the same? Perhaps Alice has more matchmaking skills than I previously thought.

  I’m going to have to delete the above paragraph from a finished book. Not only do I sound self-righteously priggish, but it makes Paulie sound like a trollop of the worst color, and she’s anything but. I speak, of course, with the hindsight of the dinner behind me, which I understand isn’t at all allowable in narrative retelling.

  Right. I shall have to delete that paragraph as well. Where was I?

  I met Paulie in the lobby of the hotel. She looked quite nice in a red dress that was, perhaps, a shade too short, considering it showed off a lot of those long, long legs of hers, but I suppose she is free to wear what she likes. Come to think of it, it had a low neckline that more or less demanded that everyone admire her breasts. Surely she had to be aware of just how much breast she was exposing? Is that the way they dress in the States? I admit I didn’t have the opportunity to look at how other women were dressed, what with Paulie’s breasts sitting right there, gleaming at me in the subdued lighting of the restaurant, not to mention the occasional flashes of leg that were quite distracting.

  But I’m jumping ahead of myself.

  “Hi,” Paulie said by way of greeting in the lobby of the hotel. “You look nice.”

  “Thank you. I wasn’t prepared for a black-tie event, so I hope a simple suit would suffice.”

  “More than suffice,” she said, smiling broadly. The admiration in her eyes was more than a little warming. “You look like James Bond.”

  “I assure you that I have no skills that would qualify me for that persona. I’m a simple estate manager. That dress is quite . . .”

  “Fun? It is, isn’t it?” She did a little twirl that showed off even more leg. Heat pooled in my groin, an effect that I ignored. The last thing I needed was an untoward erection.

  “You have the funniest look on your face,” she said, frowning a little. “Are you in pain?”

  “Not yet, but I will be if you keep spinning around,” I muttered.

  She stared at me in surprise a second, looked down at her dress, then back up to me with a slightly opened mouth. It took her a second before she reached out and whapped me on the arm. “You’re flirting with me again! Golly, Dixon! Is this a record for you?”

  “I don’t know why you interpret having definite personal boundaries with disliking women or, rather, not being interested in women, but I can assure you that the truth is far from that. I like women just fine. I met and proposed to a woman twelve years ago. She died of brain cancer four months before our wedding.”

  I hadn’t meant to blurt all of that out, especially not standing in the middle of a busy hotel lobby, but out it came, and I had the dissatisfaction of seeing her playful expression turn to one of embarrassment.

  Dammit, I’d done it again. I was the world’s biggest ass.

  “I’m sorry,” I said with a sigh at my inability to speak without making a fool of myself. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that when you were simply teasing me.”

  “You didn’t really snap so much as put me in my place,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Can I put my hand on your arm?”

  “What? Yes.”

  “Good.” She put her hand on my lower arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry about your fiancée, Dixon. I didn’t know that you were grieving, or I wouldn’t have poked fun about you flirting. Wait. Was it a flirt? Oh god, it wasn’t, was it? I totally misinterpreted it? Argh! I could just die of embarrassment!”

  “We seem to be quite adept at making each other feel uncomfortable,” I said, putting my hand over her fingers where they still sat on my arm. It was a pleasant sensation, and I wondered how long it had been since I had touched someone’s hand. “Let me at least relieve you of any guilt you might be feeling. My fiancée died a little more than nine years ago, so yes, perhaps that was a little flirting on my part. I will admit that I don’t have the easy manner that Rupert has with women, so I find things a bit difficult, socially speaking. Do you . . . er . . . want to be flirted with? By me, that is, since I know your goal is to have sex with one of the foreign contestants.”

  She stared at me in growing disbelief, her fingers digging painfully into my arm before she released it. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What have I said now?” I asked, feeling even more like a clod even though I’d just asked a simple question.

  She hit me on the arm again. “You basically said I’m in the race just so I can hook up with one of you guys with plummy accents, and chests that could drive a virgin to drink, and butts that you just want to bounce quarters off of.”

  “You yourself said—”

  “I know what I said!” she snarled and, grabbing my wrist, hauled me through the doors to the sidewalk, where she must have noticed a limousine that had pulled up. “That was an aberration, and I’d appreciate it if you’d forget it. Dad, this is Dixon. He’s not my date, so stop puffing yourself up. He’s just one of the fellow racers who thinks women are trying like mad to get into his pants even when they aren’t. Dixon, this is Angela, my stepmom.”

  She released my wrist and climbed into the back of the limo (exposing a lot of thigh in the process), leaving me on the sidewalk with a man slightly shorter than me but almost twice as broad. He wore a scowl that could probably darken the brightest summer day, and I was aware that another man emerged from the front of the car.

  “Hello, Mr.—” I started to say, but at that moment the man behind me began frisking me, grabbing me under the arms, and roughly patting his way down to my legs, whereupon he proceeded to check out each leg before moving around to the front of me to pull open my suit jacket, pulling out first my wallet, then the small notebook in which I’m making these notes. He flipped open the wallet and studied it for a moment.

  “Dixon Ainslie,” he said, and handed me back my things.

  “What is country of birth?” Paulie’s father asked me.

  “Might I inquire what—”

  “COUNTRY OF BIRTH?” he repeated at a much louder volume.

  “England, but I don’t see what that— Are you Googling me?” Outrage was, I’m sure, quite evident in my voice when I saw the henchman tapping away on his phone.

  “Sure,” Paulie’s father said, eyeing me with profound suspicion. “You maybe don’t want to be Googled? You have something to hide?”

  “I have nothing to hide—”

  “Dad, come on! I’m starving, and I told you that Dixon wasn’t a boyfriend, so you don’t need to do a background check on him. He’s just one of the racers.”

  “Is good to be careful. I have enemies,” he said darkly, his eyes narrowing on me. �
�You know what I do to enemies?”

  “No, but I assume it’s something extremely violent and quite possibly illegal.”

  “Right,” he said, giving me a push to the car. I thought about turning around and making my excuses, but the sight of Paulie’s legs had me climbing in. I was going to sit next to her, but her father gave me another shove, and he and I ended up on the seat facing the two women.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dixon,” the woman next to Paulie said. “I’m so glad Paulie’s made a friend already, and you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner despite what Peter may imply. You’re English? It’s been a long time since we visited that country, but I have fond memories of the Lake District. Do you live near there?”

  “No, but I’ve been there, and agree it’s quite nice.”

  Conversation to the restaurant consisted of Paulie’s stepmother chatting about her trip to England, and which BBC America shows she enjoys. Paulie was content to sit there and frown at her father, who spent his time grunting single-syllable replies to his wife, all the while watching me with so much suspicion, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had asked to see my passport and a copy of my fingerprints.

  The restaurant was evidently a trendy place, filled with what Elliott would call the Beautiful People, most of them prancing about as if the paparazzi were watching their every move. Who knows? Perhaps they were, although I didn’t see anyone with a camera. We were escorted into an alcove set off the main dining area, providing privacy and yet still open to the rest of the restaurant, a fact I found comforting, given the reaction of Mr. Rostakova toward me.

  “Well, isn’t this nice?” Angela said once we were seated.

  “What are they doing here?” Paulie asked, staring pointedly at the two men who accompanied us. One was the driver, while the other was the man who’d patted me down. Neither was introduced.

  Mr. Rostakova ignored her question. “Sit,” he told me, and pointed to a chair as far from Paulie as possible. I had a feeling he would have placed me in a nearby alcove, had he been given the chance.