A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (13 page)

We had a house in the Hamptons when I was growing up, but my father’s late life interest in skiing had meant good-bye, Sag Harbor, hello Aspen or Saalbach. Not that I’m complaining.

Directly across from me was the director of a prep school. A dour man who had spent his life on the edges of a society he couldn’t possibly afford. It was no doubt an awkward position, but he’d managed it with decorum. His wife sat next to him, and a woman I vaguely recognized from similar functions sat next to her. To the director’s left was another couple, the Gaudier-Smiths. I knew them from my parents’ Christmas parties. My presence at the table was definitely bringing down the median age.

Finally, I turned to my right, my social smile freezing in its politely upturned place.

Mark Grayson.

The fact that I hadn’t noticed him before was either a blessing or my mind on protective overdrive. Either way the jig was up; he was here and in the flesh. I didn’t know if I should kiss my mother or kill her. Although kill was looking like the odds-on winner.

“We meet again.” His voice was polite, but glacial. I stole a glance at the rest of the table to see if they were leaning forward, ears extended, but these people had manners flowing through their veins and everyone seemed to be involved in their own conversations.

“Mr. Grayson.” I fumbled around for something pithy to say, but my intelligence along with my stomach seemed to have deserted the ship.

“Please, call me Mark,” he said, clearly not meaning a word of it.

“And I’m Vanessa.”

“I know.” His eyes narrowed with the expression. “I can hardly turn around without stumbling over your name.”

“I don’t control the newspapers, Mr. Grayson,” I said, the emphasis on his last name. Something about his attitude pissed me off. And since anger is the great equalizer, my head cleared, my stomach lurched back into place, and my answering smile made his seem almost tropical.

“I wasn’t speaking of the tabloids. I was referencing the fact that your constant proximity is bordering on stalking.”

“I beg your pardon.” I didn’t have to pretend to be offended. I was. “I’m here because my mother is receiving an award.” I tipped my head toward my mother, who was deep in conversation with the hostess.

“Anna Carlson is your mother?” He sounded as if I’d just announced I was a Kennedy.

“Sometimes to my chagrin.” Mother chose this moment to look up, and with a waggling of eyebrows offered a beatific smile. I know I’ve said this before, but mothers can be a pain in the ass.

“I’ve always found her to be quite charming.”

“You know my mother?” I don’t know why it surprised me. I mean, our social circle is surprisingly small. But somehow I hadn’t really considered him a part of it.

“Not well. But I’ve worked with your father on numerous occasions, and because of that I’ve had the chance, from time to time, to socialize with your mother.”

The fact that my mother had kept this little tidbit a secret was enough to make my head explode, but now was not the time. “How lovely.” Okay, it didn’t work at all as a comeback, but at least my tone remained frigid.

“I take it you didn’t arrange for this?” There was an actual glimmer of sympathy in his eyes, and I wasn’t quite sure how to take it.

“No. I hadn’t any idea, actually.” I frowned over at him, trying to judge his sincerity. “Believe me, after last night, if I had, I would have pulled every string I possessed to be certain that I was seated somewhere else.”

“What about the bet?” He was goading me, I was sure of it.

“It’s finished. A miserable failure that hopefully will soon be forgotten.”

“Somehow I didn’t take you for the type who gives up at the first sign of trouble.”

I studied his face, trying to figure out what the hell he was playing at. “I’m not. But I’m also not the type to waste my time on lost causes. And you made it pretty damn clear last night that any further effort on my part was going to be rejected summarily. I’m a fighter, Mr. Grayson. But I’m not a fool.”

“Clearly you’re not.” His gaze met mine, and I felt as if I were being scanned by some sci-fi computer. You know, the kind that can record your innermost thoughts. At least I knew why he was so successful in business. He simply locked eyes with his competition and scared the shit out of them.

But I was made of sterner stuff. “Look, I gave it my best shot. You have to understand that I believe in what I do. And I honestly believe that I could have found the right partner for you.”

“Not to mention gaining a reputation as Manhattan’s best.”

“Sure. That was a big part of it. Althea is good at what she does.” The minute the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, but better to soldier on. “I started out with her. And even though I’m out on my own now, people still think of me as her protégé. I mean, would you want a hotel designed by a master architect or his apprentice? It’s as simple as that.”

“You need to make a statement that’s all yours.”

“Exactly.”

“And I fit the bill?”

“Look, you’re high-profile, you’re single, and in my opinion, you’d be better off if you had a better half.”

“Well, I have to give you one thing. You’re the first woman who’s said that to me and not been angling for the position herself.” He smiled and I was surprised again at how it softened his face. But in an instant he regained his usual grim composure. “Unless this is a ruse?”

“You caught me,” I said. “My business is all a ruse. I invented the whole thing as a way to meet men. I mean, offering to marry a guy off to someone else is such a great opening line.”

“All right. I admit that was a low blow.”

“No kidding. I realize my bet with Althea has put the spotlight on you, but I assure you that wasn’t the intention. Your involvement was strictly happenstance. You were sitting at a table in the corner-—with Tandy Montgomery. Someone said it was high time you were married and the rest is rather overrated history, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t buy that. I know for a fact that there were at least three other eligible bachelors at Bemelmans. Why me?” There was something in the question that begged more than a flippant response. I looked down at my hands, taking a moment to gather my thoughts.

“Because there was something in your eyes.”

“It’s impossible to see anything in there.”

“Well, I could see your eyes. And there was a look that said, I've conquered the mountain. Now what?’”

“And marriage is the ‘what’?”

“A partnership is. Look, people weren’t meant to operate solo. It just doesn’t work. That’s why the first humans banded together in groups. It’s what makes us come home for Thanksgiving even though we know we’ll want to throw things fifteen minutes after we arrive. We all need to belong somewhere.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in love.”

“I don’t. At least not as the only basis for a marriage. See, I believe that with the right partner, you not only have someone to come home to, you have someone to share life with. The good stuff and the bad stuff. And even better, since you get to choose, you can avoid the Uncle-Henry-drinks-too-much-and-Aunt-Sophie-never-shuts-up syndrome.”

“A manufactured family.”

“Sort of. Although I think that’s institutionalizing it even more than I would.”

“And because I had the ‘what next’ question in my eyes, you automatically translated that to ‘I need a wife’?”

It was a fair question.

“No. Well, not exactly. I mean”—this was getting tricky— “in that moment, yes. That’s exactly what I thought. But after—”

“You sobered up,” he finished for me.

“Right. After I sobered up, I had a chance to really think about it. And the truth is, you have all this success and no one to share it with.”

“What if I like being on my own?”

“It’s like I said last night, you’re just using that as an excuse to avoid intimacy.”

Anger sparked in his eyes, and I recognized in an instant that I’d gone too far. “I hardly think—”

The hostess chose that exact moment to start the proceedings. There was no more time for talk. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or regretful. Besting Althea was a hell of a carrot, but sometimes the donkey needed to get a life.

I sat back in my chair and went through the motions of paying attention, but in truth I didn’t hear another word the hostess said. I vaguely remember picking at the rubber chicken while some politician spoke about something or other, and I remember my mother standing up to accept her award, but the rest of the event went by in a haze. Until suddenly it was over, and people were standing, exchanging polite good-byes.

I stood up and was turning to go, when Grayson touched my shoulder. Damn it, I’d thought maybe he’d let it go. Squaring my shoulders I turned, bracing for his rebuttal, but instead he handed me his business card. “I’d like to finish the conversation. Call my secretary and she’ll set something up.”

I stood there for another fifteen minutes at least. And for the first time in my life I completely understood the phrase “knock me over with a feather.”

Chapter 10

Chef & Company.
8 West Eighteenth Street (corner of Fifth Avenue), 646.336.1980.

New York’s premiere corporate and fine dining caterer. Tasteful, thoughtful catering with impeccable taste. Chef & Company chefs come from the finest restaurants and catering establishments in New York City. They have a proven ability to put new spins on traditional dishes, world cuisines, and presentations. Their cuisine is exquisitely presented, dependably delivered, and professionally served.

—www.chefandco.com

∞∞∞

Television production sets aren’t noted for their opulence. Especially location shots. But Stanley Barrow’s sets were an exception to the rule. And this one, filming inside Central Park, was more lavish than most. I stood, arms crossed, waiting patiently for Stanley to finish the last of the day’s shots.

Beside me a lavish table of “afternoon snacks” was laid out with the elegant precision of a master chef. Nestled amid peach-colored linens were glorious platters of crostini and tapas, flanked by a magnificent cheese board and an assortment of the most mouthwatering pastries I’d ever seen, meant for cast and crew alike. Working on this set was most definitely not a hardship. At least not where the stomach was concerned.

Stanley harked an order, and actors and crew moved back into position. According to the digital device keeping track of takes, this was number twenty-six. Stanley hadn’t gained success by slacking off.

Maybe it wasn’t such an easy gig after all.

I think I mentioned that Stanley is a director/producer. His Mean Streets series has put a new spin on “must-see” TV. Currently television’s highest-ranked crime drama, Mean Streets: NY had spawned equally successful spin-offs including MS: Cincinnati, MS: Houston, and MS: Seattle. A twice-divorced workaholic with bad instincts where women were concerned, Stanley had jumped at the opportunity to break the pattern and find someone worthy of his money and success.

That’s where Belinda came in and, if I couldn’t manage some real damage control, where she’d be exiting stage left. As the bustling set testified, Stanley was a busy man. Fortunately, we’d already arranged to meet. And so now it was just a matter of waiting. And trying not to think about the business card burning a hole in my pocket.

It had taken every ounce of self-control I possessed not to make the call the minute I’d ditched my mother and slid into the relative safety of a taxi. But as I’d told Lindy last night, playing hard to get could be an asset—especially in business. So I didn’t want to seem too eager. I’d managed that only too well last night. There was always the possibility that Althea would find a way to worm her way in first, but I trusted my instincts and intended to wait until after my meeting to call.

Heck, maybe I’d even wait until tomorrow—then again maybe not. Self-control is obviously a good thing, but in truth I don’t have a whole lot of it.

A man in a pair of jeans and a grungy letter jacket jumped from a rocky outcrop into a clearing, shooting at the two men in hot pursuit behind him. It looked so realistic I actually took a step backward, but almost at the same time Stanley yelled, “Cut.” And the action stopped, only to rewind and start again. The process was repeated enough times for me to consume three tapas, four crostini, and a couple of fabulous slices of Stilton.

It wasn’t until I was reaching for a simply scrumptious-looking éclair that I heard Stanley utter the word everyone was waiting for: “Print.”

Waving good-bye to the tiny choux pastry, I turned to wait for Stanley. But, as you know, chocolate is seductive and before he could say, “It’s a wrap,” I’d popped the cream puff into my mouth. Of course that’s the precise moment when he came over to talk.

“Fabulous food,” he said, his voice still tinged with director’s authority. “Only the best for my people.”

Chef & Company was definitely at the top of the heap, and their presence here only added to the aura of success surrounding Stanley. “It’s amazing,” I mumbled, struggling to swallow the last of the little éclair.

“Only the best,” he repeated, draping an arm over my shoulder as we walked toward the roped-off area marking the perimeter of the set. Grips or best boys or whatever they’re called were packing up equipment that looked more complex than something one would find at NASA. And in some ways I suppose it was more marvelous. After all, machines like that made nighttime bright, rain on a sunny day, and New Paltz look like Paris in the spring. The magic of the media.

“I’m glad you made it,” Stanley said as he brushed past the crowds gathered outside the ropes. He might be one of the most powerful men in television, but the beauty of his position is that he is still relatively anonymous. The crowd was far more interested in the rock-jawed stars who played the detectives. “Do you mind walking?” he asked, nodding toward a narrow pathway leading off the meadow and into the park.

“Not at all,” I answered, as if there’d really been a choice. He was the client, if he’d wanted to go rock climbing I’d have gone through the motions.