A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Page 15

  “I was kissing a client.” I felt like I was talking in Swahili.

  “Yes, but there were extenuating circumstances. And Grayson, of all people, will understand.”

  “So you think I should tell him?” My heart exited altogether, leaving my stomach alone and threatening revolt.

  “Preemptive strike. At least if he’s interested. And I can’t imagine he’d ask to meet with you if he wasn’t. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “But what about Douglas and Maris?” I really did care about them. Besides, meeting with Mark Grayson under any circumstances was nerve-wracking, but in my present state, the idea was positively frightening.

  “You’ve already said that Maris is out,” Richard reminded me. “And Douglas is sleeping it off. So there’s nothing you can do right now anyway.”

  “I can head for St. Patrick’s and pray.”

  “Never a bad choice.” Anderson smiled, his eyes full of sympathy. “But in this case, I think Richard is right. You need to follow through with Grayson. As to telling him about the photo, I’d wait to see how it goes. If he is ready to take the plunge, then you probably owe it to him to prepare him, otherwise, it’s up to you.”

  “I should probably warn my other clients, too.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Richard said, “but really, I think you’re overestimating the influence one picture will have.”

  “You haven’t seen the picture.”

  “Neither have you,” Richard said.

  Anderson reached over to pat my shoulder. “It’ll be okay. Anticipation is the worst, really. Tomorrow, when you know how bad it is, you can start putting out fires. Tonight, I think you should call Grayson. He’s not the type to ask more than once.”

  “Well, technically he’s already asked twice.” Anderson and Richard glared simultaneously. “I said technically. And you’re right, he won’t call again.” I sighed and pulled out my cell phone, feeling a hell of a lot like a lamb being led to slaughter.

  Just to postpone the moment, I called Maris again, but got no answer. Maybe she was with Douglas. One could only hope. Richard was right—if they made up tonight it would certainly make tomorrow’s news go down easier. But I’d done everything I could to ward off disaster. And in all honesty it wasn’t my fault. I had been trying to help. Surely Maris would understand that. It’s not like Douglas wouldn’t back me up.

  At least I hoped so. Thanks to Richard and Anderson, I couldn’t get rid of the ugly notion that somehow Douglas harbored feelings for me. The idea was ludicrous. I’d never given him the slightest encouragement, and in truth I couldn’t believe he’d find me attractive. We had nothing in common except the company we kept. And the fact that I liked his novels.

  Besides, he loved Maris. He’d asked her to marry him.

  And unasked her, the little demon in my head reminded me.

  “It’s usually better if you dial first,” Richard said.

  “I’m just trying to think of what to say.” I was stalling, trying to find my courage.

  “You tell him you’re free for dinner,” Anderson said. “Honestly, Vanessa, if I didn’t know better I’d think you had a thing for Mark Grayson.”

  “I don’t even know him.” The idea was as ludicrous as the possibility of Douglas Larson having the hots for me. “And even if I did, he isn’t my type.”

  “Anderson was just kidding.” Richard raised a hand, ever the peacemaker. “Weren’t you?” He shot Anderson a censorious look.

  “Of course I was,” Anderson nodded, emphatically. Too much so. I didn’t buy it for an instant.

  “I’m not in love with anyone. And no one is in love with me.” I said it a bit too loud, and it seemed as if everyone in the bar paused to give me a pitying look. “And as far as I’m concerned that’s a good thing,” I whispered, frowning at the room in general.

  “We just want you to be happy,” Anderson said.

  “I am happy.” How in the hell had the conversation turned to me and my love life, or lack thereof? “Although come tomorrow, I may feel differently when that photograph comes out. I called you two here to help me, not to try and fix me up with my own clients.”

  “Grayson isn’t a client.”

  “Well, he will be.” Just saying the words sent my stomach back to its normal position. I could do this. And I could handle the press, too. Maris was right for Douglas, and Douglas was right for Maris. And nothing, not even a drunken kiss, could change that. All I had to do was batten down the hatches and ride out the storm.

  “Besides,” I said, squaring my shoulders and tossing my head in what I hoped was a fearlessly-facing-the-world kind of way, “I already have someone in mind for him.”

  “Who?” they said almost in unison.

  “Cybil.”

  That got their attention.

  “I guess I can see that,” Anderson said, his expression thoughtful. “There are a lot of commonalities.”

  “Does she know?” Richard asked.

  “Yes. I broached the idea last night and she said that if Grayson is interested, she’s game.”

  “What about Stephen?”

  “He’s out of the picture. Even Cybil agrees with that. So she’s a free agent, and I’ve just got this feeling Cybil and Grayson would be perfect together.”

  “Not to mention the good it would do you,” Richard said.

  “Well, of course, that’s been the point all along. But I would never ask Cybil to do something like that if I didn’t truly believe it was in her best interest. You know as well as I do that Stephen was never right for her.”

  “But that decision is hers to make. Not ours.”

  “I know that. And she’s made it. So I don’t see why she shouldn’t explore other options. It’s important that she move on.”

  “Even so, I think you’re playing with fire.”

  “Here we go again with the analogies,” Anderson said. “Look, if Vanessa says they’re a good match, I believe her. Besides, Cybil’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

  When Richard had questioned my motives, I hadn’t had any qualms. But in defending me, Anderson had actually produced a niggle of worry. I loved Cybil like a sister, and meddling in her love life wasn’t exactly risk-free.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” I said, talking as much to myself as to my friends. “I honestly think they’ll hit it off. And if I’m wrong, then they’ll just go their separate ways and no one will be hurt.” Famous last words. “Besides, I’ve still got to get Grayson on board.”

  “So call him.” Anderson tipped his head toward my phone.

  I stared down at the glowing numbers. They were right. Better to talk to him now. Tomorrow, after the papers came out, he might not be so receptive. And I could run down Maris afterward. Surely by then she’d be home.

  Maybe, for the moment at least, I could actually have my cake and eat it, too.

  But then wasn’t that exactly what Marie Antoinette thought right before they led her to the guillotine?

  Chapter 14

  Flatiron Building. 175 Fifth Avenue (between Twenty-second and Twenty-third streets).

  Not well-known among those not from the area, or not into historic architecture, the Flatiron Building is a favorite of New Yorkers and admirers around the world. Perhaps because it symbolizes so much of how New Yorkers see themselves—defiant, bold, sophisticated, and interesting. The Flatiron’s most interesting feature is its shape—a slender hull plowing up the streets of commerce as the bow of a great ocean liner plows through the waves of its domain.

  —www.glasssteelandstone.com

  ∞∞∞

  I’d never actually been in the Flatiron Building. Actually when you think about it, there are a lot of buildings in Manhattan I’ve never been in. That may sound like a blinding glimpse of the obvious, but the point is I still know those buildings. They’re part of the fabric of the city. The imprint we New Yorkers have made as we trudge through our daily lives.

  We might never
look up, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know what’s there. And the Flatiron is one of the city’s best efforts. And like all buildings in New York, it comes with its own history. Once the tallest building in Manhattan—honestly—it was never supposed to have lasted. Locals actually bet that it would fall down with the next big wind. Even better, that same wind created a wind tunnel that became the subway grate of its day, provocatively lifting women’s skirts.

  Of course, in 1902, Marilyn Monroe was just a gleam in someone’s eye and an ankle was considered quite risqué. But men will be men, no matter the era, and so young men supposedly flocked to Twenty-third in hopes of a glimpse of stocking. So much so that the constables had to chase them away and in doing so coined the term “23 skidoo.”

  And you thought all I ever thought about was Italian leather.

  Anyway, I wasn’t exactly sure why I was meeting Grayson here. He had offices on Madison. But I wasn’t complaining. The building held that kind of allure. Inside, the man at the desk had me sign in and then directed me to the top floor. I wasn’t surprised. Mark Grayson seemed like a top-of-the-building kind of guy.

  What was surprising was the fact that the elevator opened onto an empty floor. And when I say empty, I mean e-m-p-t-y. Even the walls had gone AWOL. Obviously the security guy had sent me to the wrong floor. The open space was clearly being renovated. Paint cans littered the tarp-covered floor, and from my immediate vantage point, I could see framing, a couple of saws, and a staple gun.

  But even better than that, I was almost completely surrounded by windows. At the apex of the building’s triangle, it was sort of like that scene in Titanic. Only instead of an endless ocean, I had the sparkle of the city. There were probably better, higher views—but for my money, this one ranked right up there with the best.

  I stood for a moment just soaking it in.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

  I whirled around, embarrassed to have been caught gaping. We might love our city, but we don’t want to be caught staring at it like starstruck tourists. “It’s nice,” I offered, wondering why in the world he’d asked me to meet him here.

  “It’s my favorite view in all of Manhattan.”

  “So you hold all your meetings here?” I frowned.

  “No.” He shook his head. “I actually haven’t invited anyone here before. You’re the first one.”

  “Well, maybe you should have waited for the walls?”

  “I actually like it like this. The truth is that I’ve loved this building ever since I was a kid. And when I heard the top floor was for sale, I bought it.”

  “And tore it up.” I could see traces of the old molding along the walls. It was dilapidated, but had probably been regal in its day. It seemed a shame to strip the grand dame of her hardware after all this time.

  “Actually, I’m restoring it. I found a guy in Brooklyn who can reproduce pretty much everything. We’re working from photographs of the day. It may not be exactly like it was, but it’ll be as close as you can get a hundred years later.”

  I liked a man who appreciated history. And so did Cybil.

  “So why did you bring me here?”

  For the first time since I’d met him he looked a little self-conscious. Or maybe I was transferring from me to him, because I definitely felt awkward. For one thing, I wasn’t sure exactly why he’d decided to meet with me. Hopefully it was because I’d intrigued him enough that he was interested in letting me provide a match. But for the first time I considered that it might be for something else altogether. Like throwing me off the top of the Flatiron Building to get me out of his hair.

  After all, I’d single-handedly managed to sic the press on him. Normally, he kept a fairly low profile. But thanks to me, the level had gone from blue to orange. People have killed for less.

  “I needed to take some measurements, so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

  My stomach rumbled, the bourbon swimming around in there all on its own. “I thought we were going to have dinner.”

  He smiled, the look as usual transforming him from formidable to boy next door. “We are. Right this way, madam, your table is waiting.” He bent into a sweeping bow, and despite the butterflies in my stomach, I laughed.

  “Lead on.”

  I followed him around the corner of the elevator bank to the west side of the building. From here I could see Restoration Hardware below. One of my all-time favorite stores. It’s like the best of blast from the past. You never know what you’ll find there, but it’s guaranteed to take you down memory lane.

  “I hope this will do.”

  I pulled my attention from the window and turned to find him standing beside two sawhorses covered by a piece of wallboard and a tarp. The makeshift table held a variety of open containers, all of them emanating mouthwatering aromas.

  “This is amazing,” I said, moving closer. A folding chair sat on either side of the table, artfully arranged so that the occupants would have full access to the view.

  “Alberto is the best.”

  “Alberto?” I considered myself up-to-the-second on great restaurants in the city, a noteworthy feat when one takes into consideration the sheer number of establishments on the East Side alone, not to mention a propensity for closing just after opening. New Yorkers were a tough crowd. But I drew the line at keeping up with chefs. They switched restaurants with more frequency than Paris Hilton switches fiancés.

  “My personal chef,” he answered, pulling out a chair.

  “He delivers?” Okay, Manhattan was the city of order-in, and I was the reigning queen, but this was entirely new territory.

  “I eat at odd times, and usually in strange places.” He waved a hand at the skeletal walls behind him. “I find it easier to have someone on my payroll than to keep up with who delivers what after hours.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose. And it certainly keeps it entertaining.” I smiled at him and took the seat he was offering.

  He pulled the lid off of something scrumptiously Italian in a Styrofoam container. “Veal limone?”

  “Please,” I said, watching in amazement as he filled my plate with not only the veal, but steaming asparagus, tiny roasted potatoes, and a slab of focaccia covered with garlic and rosemary. I could die happy just from inhaling. There was even a bottle of wine. “This really does look great.”

  “Alberto’s from Tuscany. But he studied in Paris. The perfect blend of grandmother’s cooking and haute cuisine.”

  “He must cost a fortune.” It was out before I could stop it. My mother was probably choking somewhere. I’d always had a problem with my mouth, especially when it came to money. I knew the rules. It’s just that sometimes I forgot to follow them. Fortunately Grayson didn’t seem to be offended.

  “He does. But it’s worth it. I travel eight months of the year. So having him along maintains some sense of normalcy. I like it. And he seems to enjoy the variation in location.”

  “You get continuity and he gets just the opposite— interesting dichotomy.”

  “It works.” He shrugged.

  We ate in silence for a moment. Not the uncomfortable kind. More the man-this-is-the-best-food-I’ve-ever-tasted-and-no-way-am-I-wasting-time-on-casual-banter kind. I’d made it through about half of the veal when I came up for air.

  “So I’m assuming you asked me here for something besides an outsider’s opinion of Alberto’s cooking.” I popped the last of the focaccia in my mouth and forced myself not to reach for another piece. “Which is definitely thumbs-up, by the way.”

  “I told you I wanted to continue our conversation.”

  “As I recall, it was over. I’d accused you of avoiding intimacy, and you were about to tell me to go to hell.” I marveled at the fact that I wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of him. Maybe the food had lulled me into some kind of taste-induced nirvana.

  “You have a good memory.” He smiled again and reached for the bread. Clearly he didn’t have to worry about pedestrian things like
weight.

  “I graduated magna cum laude.” I wasn’t sure that the tidbit had anything to do with memory, but I wanted him to realize I was more than a piece of fluff.

  “I’m sure you did. But that’s not what interests me.”

  “Then why?” I frowned, trying to figure out his angle. There had to be one. Men like Mark Grayson didn’t just invite people to dinner for the heck of it.

  “Your ideas interest me.”

  Maybe there was hope. “You’re thinking about letting me find someone for you?”

  “Well, when you put it that way, I’ve got to admit it makes me a little uncomfortable. Let’s just say I’m more open to the idea of a partnership than I thought I’d be.”

  “But the idea of someone else finding that person is still unpalatable?”

  “Yes. To some degree. Although there is a certain practicality to the idea. Anyway, I decided it was worth considering, and the first step is to get to know you a little better.”

  “No ulterior motives?”

  “Like what?” He actually looked surprised.

  “I don’t know—a chance to teach me a lesson. No more meddling or something like that?” I’d actually had an experience like that early in my career. I’d been surprised at how much it hurt.

  “Believe me, I don’t have time for that kind of thing.”

  “I’m sorry. But it’s happened before. And I don’t want to go there again.”

  “Surely you check up on your clients before you accept them?”

  “Of course. But I was young and I wanted to impress Althea. It made me less cautious than I should have been.”

  “But you see, that’s what I like in you. You’re fearless.”

  “Hardly,” I said, more flattered than I cared to admit. “I’m just good at putting on a brave front.”

  “Well, that’s half the battle, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not a replacement for experience. The episode I was speaking of is a perfect example. Althea would have seen it coming a mile away.”

  “But she wouldn’t have found him a partner.”