“That’s as insulting as it is crass.” She set her chin and didn’t sever the connection of their gazes, meeting the heat of his anger with cool, aloof professionalism.
He wanted to shake it from her, strip her bare, discover what lay beneath the surface to leave nothing but aching, pulsing honesty between them.
Either not noticing the tension or ignoring it, she continued. “Throughout history, families arranged marriages all the time. In parts of the world, it still goes on. Today, there’s a bigger need for my services than ever before. I have clients all over the world, from all sorts of backgrounds and of all ages. Often, men in your position don’t have time to meet women in the traditional way. You’re far too busy, important, insulated.”
“Spare me the sales pitch.”
“It makes sense to select someone I’ve interviewed, a woman who suits the needs of a man such as you. A woman of the right temperament, with the same interests, goals, morals, outlook, political leanings, religious preferences. A woman who understands what is expected of her and is willing to assume those responsibilities.”
“A business arrangement.”
“If you like.”
Rafe took his seat and left her standing. It was undoubtedly rude, but justified. His mother had hired Prestige, but Hope had been part of the early-morning intervention. She could have refused, but she hadn’t. That made her complicit. “So that’s what’s in here?” He flicked a glance at the folders. “A money-hungry bride-to-be—I beg your pardon, candidate—who understands what she’s getting herself into?”
“These women all deserve your respect.”
“And an expensive engagement ring?” He leaned back. “Why should I trust you?”
“Five years of success. Thirty-seven marriages.”
“Divorces?”
“Two.”
“Much better than the national average. Yet five years in business means your experiment hasn’t made it to the seven-year itch yet.”
“Whether that exists or not is a matter of debate. There’s a study that suggests there’s a four-year itch as well as a seven-year one. Oh, and a three-year one. And most couples who divorce tend to do so after a decade. So that means there’s a twelve-year flameout as well.” She lifted one delicate shoulder in a half shrug. “Whatever your bias, you can find a study to support it. The truth is, each individual is unique, and so are their relationships. People divorce for a lot of reasons and after any length of time.”
“Fair enough.”
“There are, however, a number of factors that enhance chances for success. I call them the Three C’s—compatibility, chemistry, and commitment.”
“Define success.”
She tipped her head to one side. “I suppose that’s in the eye of the beholder.”
“Take my parents. They’ve been victims of wedded bliss for thirty-three years.”
“There are financial and legal benefits for people who are married.”
She’d sidestepped his point neatly.
“Couples who are wed, versus those who cohabitate, tend to live longer.”
“Or perhaps it only seems that way.”
She smiled, and it transformed her features, making her no longer standoffish and professional, but warm and inviting. No wonder lemmings turned to her for matrimonial advice. “Have you always been a cynic, Mr. Sterling?”
“About marriage?” Not always. But the few illusions he’d held had been shattered. “Can you blame me?”
“You can’t think of any positive examples?”
“Like my sister? She’s twenty-seven and going through her second divorce, and this one is more gruesome and costly than the first. My best friend and college roommate, Griffin Lahey? His wife of three years just walked out, dumped him, ripped apart their future, and took away their son. For the final knife in his heart, she’s suing for half of his estate because she met an artist who she fancies and wants to move to Paris with him. Noah’s parents live on separate continents. My grandmother had to be coaxed into attending my grandfather’s funeral. I’m told she was drunk at the time, and not from grief. On the morning he was to be buried, legend has it that she knocked back an entire bottle of champagne…from the private reserve he had saved for special occasions. So, no, I’m not anxious to stick my neck in the matrimonial noose.”
“You asked why you should trust me. You shouldn’t. You have no reason to, yet. I could give you references from satisfied customers. I could reassure you that I’ve signed a nondisclosure. Or that Celeste Fallon believes in me. But none of that means anything. You need results. If the potential women I’ve matched you with don’t suit your needs, I’ll give you another five. Or fire me and I’ll refund your mother’s fee.”
“Fee?” He narrowed his eyes. “How much do you charge?”
“I’m expensive, Mr. Sterling.”
“Ten thousand dollars? Twenty?” When she didn’t react, he tried again. “More than that?”
“A hundred thousand.”
“Shit.” People were willing to pay a hundred grand to meet someone? If it worked out, he’d have the honor of shelling out thousands more for baubles to go along with it? Then, when the shine wore off, she’d keep them and half his fortune?
“I’m worth every penny.”
“That’s pretty confident.”
“I am.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I work hard to ensure I satisfy my clients.”
He glanced at the top folder as if it were rabid. “How did you choose these particular women?”
“In normal circumstances, I meet with a gentleman so I can get a sense about him. Then he fills in a questionnaire. It’s rather detailed. Fourteen pages of likes, dislikes, things that worked in previous relationships. Things that didn’t.”
“Go on.”
“Expectations around traditions are important as are roles in the relationship. To some, religion is important. I find out if he wants children. If so, how many? Will he want them raised in a particular religion? Where does he plan to live? In the US or abroad? Will the children attend private school? Boarding school? Will a nanny be hired? A housekeeper? After I’ve reviewed that, I have a second meeting with him for further clarification.”
“And they need you for this?”
“Most of the men I work with don’t have the opportunity to meet women they might be serious about marrying. They’ve often focused their attention on their careers or education. Some of them are famous, but they don’t want to settle down with a woman they’ve met on the road or someone who’s been part of their fan club.”
“And where do you find the women who are anxious to throw themselves at the feet of these rich men?”
“I belong to a number of organizations, and I’m active in Houston’s art and business communities. It may surprise you, but I’m often invited to high-society events. I’ve seen you at a few.”
Rafe regarded her again. “We haven’t met.” He would have remembered. Her eyes, her voice, the sweet curve of her hips, the way her legs went on forever in those shoes. Yeah. He would have remembered.
“No. I spend most of my time talking with women. Part of my value is that I’ve met all the candidates, interviewed them, watched them interact at social events.” She nudged a folder toward him. “Try me.”
“Have a seat.” Rafe wondered at his sudden offer of hospitality. He didn’t need Hope and her lilac-and-silk scent in his office while he looked through the files.
She sat opposite him, her movements delicate. Her skirt rode up her bare thighs, just a bit. He imagined skimming his fingers across her smooth skin while she gasped, then yanking down her panties, curving his fingers into the hot flesh of her ass cheeks.
Christ. He’d spent all Saturday working on next quarter’s business plan. In the previous day’s bike race against some of his friends, he’d pushed too fast, too hard, on a grueling part of the course and crashed. He’d had a shot of Crown before going to bed but skipped taking anything else for the p
ain. He’d slept like hell, and he’d spent too long working out cramps in the shower to even think about masturbating.
Now, he wished he had taken the edge off.
It had been over a month since he’d visited the Retreat, a BDSM club in a historic warehouse on Buffalo Bayou in downtown Houston, and even longer since he’d enjoyed the singular pleasure of playing with a sub at the discreet second-story Quarter in New Orleans. Of course being this close to an attractive female after such an intense drought would give him an erection. Shit. He couldn’t force himself to believe his own fucking lie. Every day, he was surrounded by beautiful women. He wanted Hope. With her ass upturned, listening to her frantic breaths as she waited for his belt…waited for his touch. It was more than the sound of her voice or the innocent-yet-provocative shoes, it was carnal desire. Lust. The last time he was gripped by its power, he’d been in college and far more helpless than he was now.
He imprisoned his thoughts and focused on the task in front of him.
Picking up the first file, he flipped it open.
The top page had a name, a picture, and the vital statistics of a beautiful twenty-four-year-old blonde. She was a UT Austin graduate, a pageant winner who flashed a tiara-worthy smile and worked as a fundraiser for underprivileged schools.
In every way, on paper, she should interest him. She was attractive, knew how to handle herself in public, and she had philanthropic inclinations.
Naturally his mother would approve. And yet… He felt nothing—less than nothing. He was uninspired and disinterested. The hard-on he’d been sporting vanished. He glanced up at Hope Malloy. “You said chemistry matters?”
“She doesn’t appeal to you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Perhaps you’ll have better luck with another choice?”
He didn’t.
After perusing the second picture, he glanced back at Hope.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“It’s possible the attraction would develop after you meet someone. Her choice of conversation, the way she moves or looks at you.” She shifted. “Pheromones.”
Those, he was starting to believe in. Keeping his mind on the folders, he said, “I see. My mother hopes I will select a bride, whether I want to fuck her or not?”
Hot pink scorched Hope’s cheekbones before she recovered. “So, you would rather have a spine-tingling attraction to someone who consumes you?”
“No.” He’d had that. Once. With Emma, in college. He’d been crazy enough about her that he’d bought her a stunning ring.
He had been invited to join her family for Christmas brunch, and he’d intended to propose then. Unbeknownst to him, Emma had been so intent on getting married that she’d been juggling dates with three different men. One of them had popped the question on Christmas Eve in front of the tree’s twinkling lights.
When she’d called to let him know, she wasn’t apologetic. She reminded him she wanted a wedding as a college graduation present, and Aaron had offered her just that. It was nothing personal. She would have been happy marrying any of them.
Rafe had hit the local bar near a shopping center. When he left, there’d been a red kettle set up outside. A man nearby was ringing a bell and asking for charitable donations. Rafe stuffed her ring through the slot and accepted the candy the bell ringer offered as thanks.
A sucker. If there’d ever been a more appropriate gesture, he didn’t recall it.
Rafe had spent every day until the new year in an alcohol-induced stupor, calling her at all hours, sending desperate text messages, even driving to her home in a stupid and embarrassing attempt to get her to change her mind.
“Mr. Sterling?” Hope’s questioning voice cut through the morose memories.
He flipped the folder closed without reading any of the pages. He refused to be out of control over a woman ever again. But if he was expected to marry and produce an heir or two, he should at least want to go to bed with her.
“Perhaps of the three C’s, compatibility and commitment are more important than chemistry?”
How much longer until he could dismiss her?
When he didn’t answer, she filled the silence. “Can you tell me what it was about the first two candidates that didn’t suit your needs? It will help me refine the search.”
“Ms. Malloy…” He struggled to leash his raging impatience. “Show some fucking mercy, will you? Until ten minutes ago, I didn’t know I needed a candidate.”
She edged the third folder toward him.
With great reluctance but with a sudden urge to get through this, he thumbed it open. Another blonde. Another perfect smile. Another impeccable pedigree. “Since I didn’t fill in your forms, I assume it was my mother who decided what college degrees and background were important?”
“Your sister rounded it out as far as activities you enjoy.”
“Yet I don’t see any of them who like to ride a mountain bike.”
“Not a huge demand in this part of Texas.”
“Kayaking?”
“I’ll add that to the next search.”
He gave in to curiosity. “Was Celeste consulted?”
“I invited her to be part of process. She declined.”
If Celeste had been involved, perhaps there would have been a redhead or a brunette. Even someone with pink toenails in peekaboo shoes.
For the second time, he resisted the impulse to hurl the files in the trash. Instead, he opened his top drawer and swept the offensive lot inside, then slammed it shut.
Hope uncrossed her legs and leaned toward him. Then, evidently thinking better of it, she sat back and recrossed them.
He swore her skin whispered like the promise of sin.
“Perhaps you should consider the options at a more convenient time,” she suggested.
“I’ll see you receive full payment.” He stood.
“I’ve already received it.”
His mother had written this woman a check for a hundred grand? “Thank you for your efforts.”
“Mr. Sterling—”
He walked past her to the door and opened it.
She sighed but stood. After gathering her purse—a small pink thing shaped like a cat, complete with ears and whiskers—she joined him. Instead of leaving, as he’d ordered, she stood in front of him, chin tipped at a defiant angle.
Hope projected competence, but the heels and fanciful handbag gave her a feminine air. A sane man would think of her as a vendor or business associate, so he could slot her into the off-limits part of his conscience. She wasn’t a potential date or wife. Or submissive.
He wanted her.
She isn’t mine.
Fuck his conscience.
Before this ridiculous idea about finding him a woman to marry went any further, she needed to know the truth about him, the side he locked away and kept hidden unless he was at one of his favorite BDSM clubs, the side that Celeste should have informed his matchmaker about.
Bare inches separated him from Hope, and he halved that distance by leaning toward her. “Is there a place on your fourteen-page questionnaire to discuss sexual proclivities?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Her knuckles whitened on her purse strap.
“Let me clarify.” Rafe spoke softly into the thick air between them. “Kinks. Those nasty, scandalous things that people do in the privacy of their own homes. Things they don’t talk about in public. Salacious acts that make them drop to their knees in church as they beg forgiveness. Would you consider that compatibility or chemistry?”
Tension tightened her shoulders. “Is there something…” Her tone suggested she was trying for professionalism, but her voice cracked on a sharp inhalation.
After a few more shallow breaths, she ventured, “What do I need to know?”
“I’m into BDSM.”
Her beautiful, pouty mouth parted a little.
An image scorched him—that of him slipping a spider gag between her lips, spreading he
r mouth and keeping it that way. He’d force her to communicate with her expression and her body, like she was now. “Your eyes are wide, Ms. Malloy. Are you shocked? Interested?” Her soul was reflected in the startling depths. “Curious, perhaps?”
It took her less than three seconds to close her mouth and regroup. “No. I’m wondering how I should phrase this for your candidates.”
She’d lied. Instead of meeting his gaze, she stared at the potted plant near the window.
Rather than unleashing the beast that suddenly wanted to dominate her, he kept his tone even. “I’m sure you’ve had clients who like that sort of thing?”
Finally, after a breath, she looked at him. “I’ll make some discreet inquiries of the candidates. What is it you’re looking for?”
He ached to capture her chin and force her to look at him. “How much do you know about BDSM?”
She pulled back her shoulders, as if on more stable ground. “I’ve heard of it.”
“No personal experience?”
“That’s not relevant.”
Damn her dishonest answer. Some? None? Would he be her first? Could he take her, mold her into what he wanted?
What the fuck was wrong with him? He’d already decided she was off-limits. “There are as many ways to practice BDSM as there are people in the lifestyle. No relationship is the same.”
“Makes sense.”
Mesmerized, he watched the wild flutter of her pulse in her throat. It was like oxygen to a dying man. He wanted more. “Some people prefer to confine their practices to the bedroom—at night, for example. Others, on occasion, indulge at a club or play party. A number of people practice it in varying degrees on a twenty-four-hour basis.”
“Where do your…proclivities lie?”
Until now, he hadn’t considered he might want a submissive wife. Over the years, he’d found it easier to go to the club. He was a Dom who would give a sub what she wanted, whether it was pain, roleplay, humiliation, a sensuous flogging, hours with torturous toys.
When he’d planned to marry Emma, he assumed she would work at a job that inspired her. Alternatively, she’d have been free to engage in social activities or charity endeavors like the wives of some of his associates. Giving up his clubs hadn’t been a consideration. Nor had he allowed himself to think of calling his bride at five p.m. and telling her to meet him in the foyer of his loft, naked, with her thighs spread and cunt shaved.
Billionaire's Matchmaker (Titans) Page 2