Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Read online

  The “steps” were actually more of a ladder, and the idea of him following behind me (even though I was wearing his jacket) felt pornographic somehow. So I hesitated, standing on my one good heel, staring upward.

  “It’ll be fine,” he soothed, as if talking to a child. “I won’t follow that closely. I promise.”

  Embarrassment flooded my face and I looked again to see if he was laughing at me. But he wasn’t. Just waiting patiently. “Sorry. Guess I’m not thinking very clearly.”

  Holding a hand to my hemline, I managed to climb up and out, relieved to find that no one I knew was standing on the sidewalk. There were a few curious stares, but as I said, this was Manhattan, and frankly, my falling into a cellar didn’t rank as Gawker material. Although my minor celebrity might have elevated things a bit had the odd paparazzi happened by.

  Fortunately, they had not.

  My savior emerged into the light and I was surprised to see that his suit was, in fact, a tux. An expensive one at that.

  “Oh my God,” I said with a wash of guilt. “This is Armani.”

  “No worries. You clearly need it more than I do,” he said, laughter coloring his voice as he took in my ragtag appearance. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call for help?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Honestly, I can make it from here. It’s just a little way.” In truth, I wasn’t completely sure I could make it anywhere. But if I went to the hospital, they’d surely call Althea, and considering all that had happened, I simply wasn’t up to a confrontation.

  “How about I call someone?” he suggested, reading my mind. I shook my head again, ignoring the pain. “I’d rather not make this any more public than necessary.”

  “But you’re hurt. And you need someone to look after you.”

  “I’ve been looking after myself for a long time. Honestly. I can deal.”

  “Well, at least let me walk you,” he said, offering his arm. Which I took gratefully. The world was starting to spin again.

  “Thank you,” I said, struggling to smile. “I really don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

  “I suspect you’d have managed just fine.”

  I nodded my agreement, although it was an empty gesture, as I was having definite trouble just putting one foot in front of the other. We walked a couple of tentative steps, and then, without warning, I felt my knees turn to complete Jell-O.

  His arms tightened around me as I opened my mouth to apologize, but my tongue clearly wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. Instead, my entire body sagged against him, my nose buried in the Egyptian cotton of his shirt as the world faded into a hazy shade of blue-black velvet.

  The next thing I knew, I was lying in the ER listening to a screamer in the cubicle on the left and a woman behind the curtain on the right who clearly hadn’t been happy about anything since sometime in 1966.

  I had a vague memory of an ambulance and a rush of hospital personnel. Although, oddly, my clearest recollection was that my stranger had been there the whole time. Holding my hand, if my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. Of course, I probably hadn’t given him much choice.

  Anyway, apparently I was on my own now. Not even a doctor in sight. My purse had disappeared, along with my dress and his jacket. I gingerly felt along my hairline, my fingers encountering a gauze bandage just above my right eye.

  “You had to have stitches.” My aunt waltzed into the cubicle on a cloud of Opium, and I found myself wishing it were the real thing. “Seven along your hairline and five more under one rib. You’re lucky you didn’t break anything. But apparently you lost a lot of blood.”

  “That would explain the fainting.”

  “Yes, but not much else.” Althea settled on the edge of the bed, her face lined with concern.

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked.

  “I got a phone call from a total stranger.” She said it as if it were the most egregious of sins. “He had your cell phone, and apparently you have me on speed dial.”

  Stupid mistake.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. I was unconscious.” I tried for an irritated frown, but only succeeded in a grimace of pain. “Is he still here?” There was no doubt in my mind who she was talking about. And just at the moment I really wanted to see him—to thank him, of course.

  “No. He had to leave. Said to tell you not to worry about the jacket—whatever that means.”

  “Nothing, really. Did you get his name?” The answer suddenly seemed amazingly important, and I waited, holding my breath.

  “Ivan or Aaron or something,” Althea said. “I don’t know. I wasn’t concentrating on him. I was worried about you.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment swelled, and I immediately felt guilty. It was the situation. Or some kind of reaction. What was it Patty Hearst had had? Stockholm syndrome? Well, I guess that’s not the same thing, but you know what I mean. Clearly, it had to be some sort of illusion. I’d just lost Dillon. I couldn’t possibly be interested in another man.

  I shook my head, immediately regretted the motion, and then closed my eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

  “Are you all right?” Althea’s worried gaze swam before my eyes. “The doctor said you might have a concussion.”

  “I feel a little woozy, that’s all.”

  “So, want to tell me what happened?” she asked, taking my hand.

  Of course I didn’t, but Althea can be rather tenacious when it comes to extracting information.

  I remember once when I was fifteen, Olivia Brookston and I snuck out to go to a club. We figured everything that was worth happening in Manhattan happened after our curfew. Armed with fake IDs, we managed to get in and were just high-fiving our success over Singapore slings (what can I say—I was a kid and umbrella drinks seemed really cool) when my aunt arrived and dragged us both home. I was grounded for a month, and to this day I still have no idea how she knew where we were.

  The point being, Althea has a knack for knowing exactly what it is you don’t want her to figure out. Maybe that’s how she manages to snare so many successful Manhattanites as clients. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit. I mean, at the end of the day, knowledge is power.

  Anyway, better to just come clean.

  “I fell into a bodega cellar.”

  “I gathered that much. But your rescuer said something about your boyfriend?”

  “Well, he didn’t push me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Of course not.” She shook her head, but I could tell that she wouldn’t have put it past him. Which in some weird way was actually comforting. Even though it came from Althea. “But he did have something to do with it.” She crossed her arms. Waiting.

  I sighed. “Indirectly. You were right about Diana Merreck. He’s been seeing her.”

  “Behind your back?”

  “Is there any other way?” I asked, feeling miserable. As angry as I was at Dillon, I loved him. Or at least I had. No, I guessed I still did. Everything at the moment seemed a bit confusing. “Although after he came clean, he did suggest dating us both.”

  “And you told him to go to hell.” Althea’s tone made it a forgone conclusion. Which, thankfully, it was.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t as easy as you’re making it sound. I’ve been with Dillon practically forever.”

  “Three years is not forever, Andrea,” Althea said with a frown. “And besides, he was never right for you.”

  “Well, I thought he was.” It was a stupid time to argue, considering that Dillon’s recent admission had more than proved her right, but there was no way I was going to admit that. “And besides, maybe he’ll get home tonight and regret the whole thing.”

  “And you’d take him back?”

  “No. Well, I don’t know. Maybe?” It wasn’t the most definitive of answers, but the truth was I already missed him.

  “Andrea, there’s no way you’d take him back. Not after he cheated on you.” She shook her head, and I could almost feel her disapprova
l. “Frankly, I’m surprised at Diana Merreck. I’d lay odds she hasn’t mentioned the liaison to her mother.”

  “Can we talk about this later? Please? My head hurts.” It did. Really. “I just want to go home and pretend none of this ever happened.”

  “Well, I hardly think that’s going to be possible,” a nurse said as she pushed through the cubicle curtains. “You’ve got a couple of bruised ribs, a gash on your belly, and a deep laceration on your head. All of which are going to be pretty hard to ignore.”

  Miss Congeniality reached for my wrist, checking my pulse, which had jumped alarmingly at her callous recitation of my injuries. “And to top it off,” she continued, completely unaware of my discomfort, or quite possibly taking pleasure in it, “there’s always the chance of concussion. So the doctor’s ordered your discharge but only on the condition that you have someone who can watch over you for the next twelve hours or so.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I said, moving to sit on the side of the gurney. The world tipped left and then right and I fought a wave of nausea. My aunt’s perfectly manicured fingers closed on my arm, steadying me.

  “I’m thinking maybe not,” the nurse said with a snide smile of satisfaction. Definitely not a woman who’d chosen nursing because of her sense of compassion.

  “It’s not a problem,” Althea assured her. “Andrea can stay with me.”

  I fought against another wave of nausea as the nurse handed me a little paper cup.

  “For the pain,” she said.

  I swallowed the pills, wishing they'd magically transport me to a kingdom far, far away. But no such luck.

  “Now, now, darling,” Althea was saying as the nurse scribbled something else in my chart and then left the cubicle, “don’t you worry. I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”

  That’s exactly what I was afraid of. Althea’s promises tend to take on a life of their own.

  “But I have to go home,” I protested. “What about Bentley?”

  “Bentley is a dog.” A West Highland white terrier, to be exact.

  “All the more reason why I need to go home,” I insisted. The last thing I wanted was Althea’s brand of “mothering.” “He can’t be left on his own.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll call Dillon.”

  “No,” I snapped. “He’s my dog. Or at least he should be. I mean, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Right?” Technically, Bentley belonged to Dillon, but the truth was that he spent most of his time with me. Which had never presented a problem— until now. “Anyway, Bentley needs me.” Or maybe I needed him. “So you can’t give him to Dillon.”

  Althea considered the possibilities for a moment. She’s not all that fond of dogs. But fortunately, she’s less fond of Dillon.

  “All right,” she acquiesced, lifting a hand in surrender. “I’ll have Wilson drive over and get him.” Wilson Hartley is Althea’s chauffeur. She has an entire staff, actually. Most of whom she inherited from my grandmother when Harriet decided to spend most of her time abroad. Anyway, I’ve known Wilson forever, which meant I could trust him with Bentley.

  “Thank you.” I sighed. It was a small victory. But I’d take the win.

  “The important thing is that we take care of you.”

  The idea of Althea taking care of anyone was just this side of ludicrous. She wasn’t exactly the “warm and fuzzy” type. That’s why she has staff. But to be honest, at the moment, I didn’t really relish being on my own. In one night, I’d been dumped, rescued, dumped again (if one considered my man of the hour’s defection), and left alone with an aching body and a broken heart.

  All of which made one overbearing aunt seem positively heavenly. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. But it did seem the lesser of two evils. I closed my eyes, shutting out the hospital, Althea, and the pain. I didn’t need Dillon. Hell, I didn’t need anyone.

  And what’s more—tomorrow was another day.

  Which would have been comforting if Scarlett O’Hara hadn’t been such a ninny.

  Chapter 3

  There’s a moment when you first wake up, before your brain kicks fully into gear, when anything seems possible, and everything feels wonderful. The sun is shining, birds are singing. Okay, it’s Manhattan, so think taxis honking. But the point is, life is fabulous.

  For about two freakin’ seconds—and then reality comes crashing in.

  Some days it’s worse than others (reality, I mean). And today totally topped the list. All I had to do was close my eyes and everything came back in full vegetated glory. Me, Dillonless, at the bottom of a very dark, dirty cellar. Can it get any more metaphoric?

  Or awful?

  I rolled over, burying my head under the pillow. Maybe if I stayed there long enough it would all go away.

  “Andrea.”

  Then again, maybe not.

  I braced myself and flipped over onto my back to face my aunt. “You’re up early.”

  “It’s not that early,” she said with a shrug, pulling open the drapes. “Besides, I had a meeting. And unfortunately, I’ve got another one in half an hour. I just came by to check on you.”

  “A matchmaker’s work is never done,” I said, grimacing as I sat up, every muscle in my body revolting with the movement. “Anyway, I’m perfectly fine.”

  “You don’t look it.” Althea sat on the edge of the bed, laying a hand across my forehead. “But you don’t have a fever.”

  “I’m not sick,” I protested, pulling back. “Just a bit banged up. I fell down the rabbit hole. Don’t you remember?”

  “Of course I do. I followed the doctor’s orders to the letter, checked on you every two hours last night.”

  Which would explain the nightmares. “So how was your meeting?” I asked.

  “Nothing important.” She wrinkled her nose as she shook her head. “Potential client.”

  It never stopped. “Heard from Bethany?” Okay, so sue me, I was curious. And anyway, Althea required all her clients as well as their dates to check in afterward. Sort of a state of the union meeting, as it were. And I figured that even though Michael wasn’t an “official” client, Althea would want to keep tabs.

  “Not yet,” Althea said, confirming my suspicions. “But Michael was really pleased.”

  “That makes it sound like he’s just bought a new rug.” I frowned, immediately regretting the movement since it stretched my stitches. Bentley emerged from the covers, poking a cold nose against my hand in a canine attempt at sympathy. But all it did was make me think of the carpet he’d ruined when he was a puppy.

  It was African. From my mom. So it had meant a lot—to me, not Bentley. He’d relieved himself there not once but twice, and believe me, no amount of Resolve could…well, resolve the situation. So I’d consulted a Web site and, following instructions, I’d hand washed the rug the best I could and hung it out the window to air dry.

  I had just been congratulating myself on a job well done when a gust of wind blew the rug off the sill and onto the top of a delivery van eight floors below. Apparently, the driver liked the new look, because he never even slowed down. Of course I ran down to the street, but by the time I got outside, the van was nowhere to be seen. I considered taking Bentley straight back to the breeder, but he’d looked so pathetically apologetic, I couldn’t find it in me to take such drastic measures. Instead, we’d bonded over some Italian sausage and homemade linguine. And, except for the demise of a pair of old Manolos, we’d made it through the rest of his puppydom without incident.

  But I still miss that rug.

  “Michael enjoyed himself, Andrea,” Althea was saying. “That’s all I meant. I don’t know why you have to be so prickly.”

  “Maybe because my life is a disaster?”

  “Oh, please. Your life is fine. Or it will be after you’ve had some rest.”

  “I don’t want to rest.” I crossed my arms mutinously and Bentley let out a little yip of support. “I have to go to work. We’re taping a segment today.”r />
  “Maybe you should postpone?”

  “I can’t. There’s a strict schedule.”

  “But what about your face?” Althea asked, shaking her head like some kind of couture-clad schoolmarm. “There’s quite a bit of bruising around the stitches.”

  I shifted so that I could better see myself in the mirror over the bureau. It wasn’t a pretty picture, but with the right hair and makeup I figured no one would be the wiser.

  “Even if they can camouflage the purple, what are you going to do about the pain?” Althea prompted, clearly following my internal train of thought.

  “Vicodin.” I picked up the bottle by the bedside table and gave it a shake.

  “And your clothes?”

  I was wearing the same scrubs the hospital had given me last night. Not exactly high fashion, but much better than my tattered alice & olivia. “Hello. I’ve got Wardrobe. It isn’t exactly the big leagues, but there is a budget. Besides, we’ve already taped two segments of the show, so I’ve got to wear the same thing. And the outfit is at the studio.”

  “I suppose that’s only sensible,” Althea said, with a glance at said party dress. “Still, I don’t like the idea of your trying to do anything so soon after your injury. The doctor said—”

  “Twelve hours.” I cut her off. “And it’s been more than that.”

  “I should go with you,” she sighed, “but as I said, I’ve got another appointment. Maybe I can reschedule.”

  “I don’t need you to go with me,” I protested. I’d been awake all of five minutes and already I was feeling smothered. “I can grab a taxi.”

  “Nonsense. But I do have a solution.” She smiled as if she’d just achieved some kind of international accord. “If you insist on going, Wilson can drive you.”

  “But then who’ll take you?” It wasn’t infallible logic, but Althea did like traveling in style.

  “I’ll just call a service. Or take a cab.” She nodded as if public transportation were an everyday occurrence. Not. “So we’re agreed?”

  “I suppose so.” There was a compromise in there somewhere. “Good, then it’s settled. You’ll do your taping and then Wilson will bring you home again. I should be back by then and we’ll be able to make an informed decision as to whether you’re ready to go back to your apartment.”