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“Funny guy,” Isaac murmured into the glass before taking a sip.
The alcohol burned his throat, and the pungent fumes left him craving clean, unfiltered air. Maybe this weekend he’d head up to the Poconos. For all that he loved the city—its vibrancy, international community and resulting diverse culture—there was nothing like New York’s mountains in the fall.
“Isaac?”
He turned toward the familiar voice. “Hello, Jaline.”
She handed him his packet and visibly cringed. “Sorry. Jonathan said to make sure you didn’t skip out.”
Irritation prickled along his hairline and he rubbed at the sensation, trying to get it to go away. “I told him I wouldn’t bail on him, and I won’t.”
“Fair enough. My job is to get you your paperwork and see you seated at table twelve. Then? I’m out, and you’re on your own with the women Lucky paired you with.”
“Fantastic.” In reality, this whole thing was anything but.
Taking the paperwork, he made his way to table twelve, well aware the woman watched his every move. He had to wonder what she’d do if he feinted toward the door, but he didn’t. He was many things—unnecessarily cruel wasn’t one of them. That he’d even considered it was evidence as to how much the evening had worn on him. Only brotherly affection kept him from walking out. Jonathan had made it clear he needed Isaac to see this through. And at the end of the night, Isaac would be disqualified for any future test runs of the Power Match app.
Whatever. It amused him that he would end up being declared insufficient. That hadn’t ever happened to him before.
Sinking into a chair, he set his drink and paperwork on the table and then shrugged out of his suit jacket. Less than two minutes passed before he found himself putting the jacket on again.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, yanking the jacket so it hung straight and then rearranging his tie. “It’s a couple hours of one night of my life. Nothing more. I’ve been civil for far longer and under worse conditions.” He picked up his martini glass and gave Jaline, who still watched him, a somber salute. “I’ll survive.”
With the lyrics from that same iconic 70s song ringing through his head, he smiled benignly as the first woman approached his table.
* * *
Rachel leaned over the ladies’-room counter and reapplied her lipstick. The sound system had been piped into the spacious room, so she heard the moderator calling participants together to attend what was deemed their final “power match.” The woman’s enthusiasm grated on Rachel’s nerves, particularly since her first two meet and greets had been unmitigated catastrophes.
“Calling all lab rats together for the final observation session of mating behaviors as they occur in an urban environment,” someone said from behind a closed stall door.
“In a controlled urban environment,” someone else qualified from another stall.
The two commentators laughed.
Rachel didn’t.
Were they right? Was that all this was—a structured environment where psychologists would watch with an educated eye and report their findings back to the mysterious people who designed apps like this? What would they do with the personal information when the app went live? She racked her brain, trying to remember the contract language regarding using an applicant’s personal information for advertising and promotional purposes.
Damn it. Wine haze had her questioning what she thought she remembered.
She knew better than to sign anything, even her bar tab, when she’d had that third glass of red.
Could she back out? Yes, but she needed the cash offered to participants to pay off the remaining balance on her March trip with Casey to the Dominican Republic. If she didn’t collect the two grand, she’d be seriously hard-pressed to make that vacation happen. And she needed that vacation. Two weeks in paradise. No incessantly ringing phones. No senior attorneys treating her like she was a secretary instead of an active member of the New York State Bar. No ten-and twelve-hour days ending with cold Chinese takeout. No Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons in the office trying to catch up. No insane commute that involved crowded subway stations, jostling crowds at every crosswalk or attempts to avoid the unpredictable weather.
Two weeks of complimentary drinks, fine dining, spa services and beach chairs situated just out of reach of the surf.
“For that, I can tolerate a hell of a lot more than being called a lab rat,” she said to her reflection.
An attractive woman left one of the stalls, stepped up to the mirror and began fussing with her hair. “You here for the dating thing?”
“Yeah.” Rachel glanced over. “You?”
“No. I’m Jaline’s assistant.”
Rachel searched her brain for the name but came up empty. “Jaline?”
“Jaline Harkins. The moderator.” Making an O with her mouth, the woman used a piece of tissue to clean up the places she seemed to think her lipstick had feathered. “She’s the doctor—well, she’s a psychologist but has her PhD—for the app developer. She worked for the number one dating app in the United States, developing the software that helped them get to where they were. But the guy who came up with the app that paired powerful men and women? He came in and stole her right out from under the competition.”
A warning bell sounded in Rachel’s head. “If she had a noncompete, and I can’t imagine she didn’t, she’s violating the terms of her employment.” And any reasonably intelligent employer would have had a noncompete in place if this woman, Jaline, had exclusive access to proprietary information like the competitor’s software.
Jaline’s assistant elegantly lifted one shoulder with obvious indifference. “No idea. All I know is that Jaline took me with her.” The stranger casually glanced at Rachel from the corner of her eye. “Jaline even got me a raise out of the whole thing. She told me that the guy who scooped us has some pretty serious capital backing. And with Jaline handling the psychology between good and bad matches? This new app is going to be a huge success.”
Rachel had no idea what she was expected to say to that, so she just nodded.
“What do you do?” the other woman asked.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Cool. Your first two matches—what did you think?” The woman didn’t give Rachel time to answer before continuing. “If you’ll excuse me, she’ll need me on the floor as the men try to navigate the paperwork for this final power match. Even men deemed professionally powerful need an assistant if forms are involved. Best of luck finding Mr. Right,” she called over her shoulder as she left the bathroom and returned to the bar.
“I just need to find Mr. Right Now,” Rachel said to the empty air. Neither man she’d been paired with so far had even come close.
The first man had her looking around to see if the whole event was actually a practical joke...one made wholly at her expense. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been. “King John” owned a line of portable toilets used at construction sites and such. “John ain’t my name. It’s Bruce,” he’d said. “But I’m talkin’ ‘John’ as in shitter, sweet cheeks. Get it?”
The “King” had tried to pump her for legal advice for the first thirty minutes of their forty-five-minute introduction. When she’d said that she didn’t give legal advice outside the office, he’d shrugged. Then his face lit with enthusiasm. He offered to take her on a tour of his “personal facilities” as he slid his filthy booted foot up the inside of her bare leg while waggling his eyebrows and asking, again, if she “got it.”
She stood, told him she definitely “got it” and said that if he didn’t get out before the next session, she’d have him thrown out. Then she went straight to the bar and ordered a mojito.
The second man she’d been matched with had been so initially forgettable that he seemed harmless—he reminded her of an actor who played a scientist on a popular sitcom. As irony would have it, the guy was actually a scientist. He held a doctorate in astronomy from MIT. But he also lived in his mother’s basement and was a certified conspiracy theorist. He had spent the entire time telling her that the evening’s events were part of a breeding study being carried out by the government.
When the bell announcing the conclusion of the second match sounded, Rachel had nearly tipped over her chair as she stood and headed for the bar. That hadn’t stopped the guy from calling out an invitation to go back to his mom’s place “to copulate in the name of science.”
Her second drink had been a shot of tequila.
So had her third, and she hadn’t even met the third man she’d been paired with.
She also hadn’t been the only woman at the bar. The bartender had been pouring as fast as he could for the mass of women crowding the counter, all of them sporting some level of shock.
If she was honest with herself, it seemed most prudent at this point to simply cut and run. She wasn’t even opposed to leaving her coat. It could be replaced. Her sanity? No such guarantees. Yes, she needed the money for her vacation. But she was more than willing to eat a ramen-only diet to pay off the trip’s outstanding balance. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d borrow from her 401(k). Anything had to be better than this.
Decision made, she left the women’s room and headed for the exit.
Someone lightly touched her arm, and Rachel spun to find the moderator, Jaline, looking at her. “Is something wrong?”
“You could say that. First, I was felt up by the steel-toed work boot of the man I wouldn’t have selected as a partner if humanity’s very existence hung in the balance. I told him to leave without consulting you, but I also likely saved you sexual-harassment charges. You’re welcome, but make sure he’s taken off the roster for future events. I mean it.” She knew she sounded as crazed as she felt, but there was no reining it in. “My second match is a conspiracy theorist who probably believes Star Trek—any generation—was a documentary. He offered to procreate, in his bedroom in his mother’s basement, in the name of science. I don’t know where you found these guys, but they aren’t even remotely the type of partners we were promised. They aren’t like-minded. They aren’t civilized. And they certainly aren’t gentlemen. Given the looks on most of the women’s faces at the bar, you’re going to need to provide post ‘power match’ therapy to help them get over the horrors of agreeing to this farce.”
Chest heaving, she turned to go, but Jaline stopped her, this time grabbing her arm with enough force to startle Rachel. The woman’s eyes were wide, her expression harried.
“Please, Ms....”
“Stephens. Rachel Stephens.”
“Please, Ms. Stephens. Rachel. I’ll personally ensure the first man is removed from our test pool and flag his application as an automatic rejection if he tries to reapply. I’ll also have the second man’s application reviewed to see how he got through to the test phase. Neither of these men represents Power Match’s ultimate bachelor. Please, stay through the last round of introductions? As a test applicant, your participation helps us sort out any glitches in the app before it goes live.” The diminutive woman shuddered. “Can you imagine what would happen if we didn’t figure this stuff out first?”
Rachel hesitated. “I appreciate the position you’re in, but it’s been a colossally bad night, Jaline. I just want to go home.”
The woman held out her hand for Rachel’s crumpled paperwork. “I’ll make you a deal. Let me personally vet the final candidate you’ve been paired with. If I don’t think he’s a good match, I’ll see you out myself and sign your paperwork so you can still collect the compensation.”
Rachel clutched her paperwork. “Let me get this straight. If he’s not legit, if he’s another ‘glitch,’ I get to leave and I still get paid as if I’d sat through all three rounds.”
“You have my word.” Jaline eased the paperwork from Rachel’s fist and flipped through several pages. “By choosing to stay, you’re helping to ensure this doesn’t happen...” Her gaze snapped to Rachel’s. “You’re going to want to stay.”
“Why?” Skepticism weighted the one-word question. “Who is he?”
“Your next power match is...” Her cheeks flushed, and she fanned herself.
Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re actually blushing. Who is this guy?”
“I’ll allow him to introduce himself. But I’ll promise you ahead of time that he’s incredibly easy to look at, he’s the very definition of corporate success and he’s a gentleman through and through. You aren’t going to want to miss this introduction.”
Curiosity always got the best of her in the worst situations, and this evening certainly qualified as a personal “worst.”
Jaline seemed to sense her hesitation and leaned in close, speaking low enough that only Rachel could hear her. “I’ll stay within sight. If he says or does anything you don’t like, just...” She looked around and ended up pulling a rubber band out of her little bag. “Put your hair up in a topknot and I’ll come running.” When Rachel still didn’t agree, the woman took her by the arm and steered her across the room, every step taken with undeniable purpose. They neared a table at the far corner of the dance floor. A man sat alone, his back to the room, balancing his chair on the two rear legs. The lazy way he rocked forward and back announced to anyone and everyone that he was thoroughly bored.
His short, black hair was neatly trimmed. His suit was cut so it framed his broad shoulders and, even slouched as he was, he was tall.
“That’s him?” she asked, squashing an unexpected wave of anticipation.
“Yes.” Jaline threw her a little side-eye. “He’ll be worth your time. Trust me.”
Rachel scowled at her. “I never trust people who say ‘trust me,’” she murmured.
“Wise,” the man said.
She shot Jaline a wide-eyed look. “Supersonic hearing?”
Jaline slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.
He turned just enough to offer her a glance at his profile. “Nothing so extraordinary. I’m just used to people talking about me behind my back.”
Tall.
Check.
From what she could see? Smoking hot.
Check-check.
If chemistry sparked between them?
A shiver ran up her spine.
Rachel pulled out her chair and slowly sat, facing the man she hadn’t expected to find.
Mr. Right Now.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ue1954000-3f85-5123-8dac-b14d743b5e7c)
ISAAC LOOKED UP as the chair opposite him was pulled away from the table. A woman in a dark green dress sank onto the seat with incredible grace, setting her clutch in her lap before crossing her legs in a controlled move that drew his attention. His gaze rested on the dress’s short hem before he realized that her legs were bare. In October.
Isaac shifted slightly in his seat. He had always appreciated the way women’s bodies appeared deceptively softer, their more subtly sculpted lines and lithe forms imbued with inherent grace. And when a woman worked to enhance those fine lines and fluid form? He appreciated it all the more. Without a doubt, the woman who had taken a seat across from him put in more than sufficient time to hone her form. She’d done such a magnificent job that, embarrassingly, Isaac found himself staring.
Appreciating.
Craving.
The woman began tapping a well-manicured fingernail against the small bag in her lap. “Let me know when you’re done with the physical assessment. The timer on our little meeting starts in—” she twisted in her chair, then twisted back “—about three minutes.”
“Plenty of time, then.”
“Time for...”
“Surely you’ve heard how important first impressions are.”
Her finger—the one tap-tap-tapping her handbag—went still. “And what, exactly, are you doing to secure that all-important first impression?”
“I’m sitting here trying not to intimidate you.”
She laughed then, the sound as promising as room-temperature bourbon poured over chilled whiskey stones.
“Do that again,” he said quietly, his gaze hovering at the highest point of the slit in the dress, the one that exposed a thin strip of smooth skin on the outside of her upper thigh.
“Do what again?” she asked in that sin-and-redemption voice.
“Laugh.”
“Make me.”
Isaac leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Who was she, this stranger, that she thought she stood a chance in hell of ordering him to do anything at all?
Had the dress she was wearing been displayed in a museum, it would have been called “Temptation in Textiles.” And with just cause. It was cut so that it showcased her best physical assets—long legs, trim waist, pert breasts, pale skin and that elegant neck, half-hidden by the mass of loosely curled mahogany hair. That strong jaw.
He liked defined characteristics in a woman—knew men who much preferred their women softer, both in form and personality. Not him. As far as Isaac was concerned, strength was strength. And strength trumped softness each and every time.
Whoever this woman was, she understood the value of strength.
But she didn’t realize whom she was facing off with.
