A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Page 7

  “Quite a crowd,” Cybil whispered, sipping a martini. Obviously her stomach was stronger than mine.

  “And then some.” I nodded to a hard-bodied man in Tommy Hilfiger, shirt open to the waist. He flexed as he walked past us, and I resisted the urge to pinch to see if it was real.

  Three scantily clad twentysomethings passed in his wake, their eyes locked on his now undulating derriere.

  “Bungahos,” Cybil said, with a catty smile almost reminiscent of pre-breakup.

  Bungahos were women (and I suppose men) who hung out at Bungalow 8 with startling regularity. Hangers-on who could get in—just—and intended to make the most of the fact.

  “I don’t think so. The look isn’t right.” I nodded at blonde number two. “Definitely off-the-rack. My guess is they’ve been admitted as part of someone’s entourage.”

  Cybil tilted her head, studying them as they walked away. “You’re right. My vote is Banana Republic.”

  Now, please understand that in normal life there is nothing at all wrong with buying clothes from Banana Republic, but if you’re trying to capture the attention of someone of the opposite sex in a place like this, you have to dress for the challenge.

  Unfortunately these girls hadn’t gotten the memo. I smiled kindly, thinking what I could do for them, and then pushed the thought aside. I wasn’t here for recruits.

  “You see him?” Cybil asked, as usual reading my thoughts.

  “No.” I shook my head, trying to pitch my voice beneath the music. “But I can’t see more than about a foot in front of me. There’re too many people in here.”

  As if on command the Dolce & Gabbana crowd shifted and there beside a potted palm and a red velvet banquet I saw a flash of gold Ungaro and the perfect symmetry of an auburn pageboy.

  Althea.

  Fortunately, she was talking to an editor from Woman’s Day. Martha something-or-other. If memory served, the woman was a chatterbox. Which at the moment suited my purposes perfectly since it bought me valuable time.

  Assuming, of course, Althea hadn’t already found our quarry.

  The thought sent panic coursing through me, but a long sip of champagne stopped it cold. I traded in my empty glass for a full one, letting the frosty bubbles bolster my courage.

  “If he’s here, he’ll be up there,” Cybil said, gesturing to the glass-enclosed VIP lounge above our heads. If getting into Bungalow 8 took connections, getting up to the VIP lounge took credentials.

  Thank God Anderson had them. Which meant that my gold-edged invitation trumped the bulk of the crowd holding simple white ones. Althea’s, of course, would have gold as well. So the race was on.

  “Help me get through the crowd.” I was already moving, using a strategic smile, as well as a well-placed elbow, to work my way forward.

  Cybil moved to my left, flanking me on that side. It was a dance choreographed through years of clubbing. We might have been on the wrong side of the age equation, but what we lacked in skin tone we more than made up for with experience.

  In fact, we’d almost made it to the überbouncer when I felt a hand on my arm.

  “Vanessa. I knew you’d be here.” Speaking of young and perfect.

  Devon Sinclair was a client. One I’d taken on in a fit of optimism that I had a feeling I was going to live to regret. In all truth, he was too young for this game. Too many wild oats to sow. A wunderkind on Wall Street, with a seven-figure income and the pubescent mind of a teenager.

  If a male could in fact be a bungaho, Devon fit the bill to a T. Except that in addition to all the philandering, he supposedly yearned for 2.5 kids and acreage in Westchester. Hailing from somewhere southwestern, he had that rare combination of boyish charm and Mensa IQ. Common sense not coming into the equation at all.

  So far I’d set him up with four women without success. His reticence was helping my income and ruining my average. But I had high hopes for my latest choice. Lindy Adams was as delicious as she was connected. A year younger than Devon’s twenty-six, she was Barbie to his Ken. A perfect couple.

  At least on paper.

  Judging from the buxom brunette clutching his arm, things were playing out true to form.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, sotto voce.

  “Having a good time.” His smile was meant to be disarming, but fortunately I was immune.

  “With her?” I shot a pointed look in the brunette’s direction. She responded by pouting, her eyes narrowing in a decidedly unflattering fashion. This one recognized a good package when she saw it.

  “Oh, my God,” Cybil said, cupping a hand over her eyes. “Is that Armando Diaz?” Diaz was one of Hollywood’s hotshot producers, a fixture at Bungalow 8 and a sure draw for bimbos of all persuasions.

  “Where?” Chesty asked, her eyes going wide.

  “Over there.” Cybil pointed toward a man holding court by the bar.

  “Oh.” The woman’s voice would do Jayne Mansfield proud. And with an excited squeak she tottered off on five-inch heels, the crowd miraculously parting in the way that could only be accomplished by a double D.

  “What was that all about?” Devon asked, frowning. “I just met her.”

  “You’re supposed to be with Lindy. What happened?”

  “She’s here.” Devon shrugged and reached for a cigarette, only to realize he wasn’t allowed. “Damn Bloomberg.” He slid the silver case back into his pocket and smiled sheepishly. “She’s in the restroom.”

  “And you’ve already picked up another woman?” I tried but couldn’t keep the dismay out of my voice. “Devon, you said you wanted to find a wife.”

  “I do. It’s just hard to ignore the eye candy. You know what I mean?”

  If he’d been ten years older he’d have sounded pathetic, but he wasn’t. He was young, hot, and successful, and in Manhattan that made him a commodity.

  “Look, Devon, I took you on against my better instincts. Don’t prove me right.”

  He actually managed to look chastised. It was the same look that had sucked me into overriding my intuition. “I’m trying.”

  “Maybe a little less clubbing and a little more serious face time with your date?” It was just a suggestion but I delivered it with the authority of a five-star general. It wasn’t what you said as much as how you said it. I learned that from my mother, the queen of innuendo.

  “You’re right. I know you’re right.” He sighed, his gaze traveling up and down the amazing length of one of the Cavalli models.

  “Devon.” I sighed. “Go find Lindy. Make me look good. Okay?”

  He nodded, his attention switching from the model to me. The once-over was less enthusiastic, hut there was admiration there. “I’m not sure you need my help. That dress is hot.”

  I was old enough to be, well, his sister, and I had no illusions about how I looked. But it was a good dress. “Thanks. But flattery isn’t going to work. Go find Lindy.”

  “Fine.” He grinned. “There are worse fates. Like maybe chasing after Mark Grayson?”

  God, the whole freakin’ world read Page Six.

  “I’m not chasing him.”

  “But you are here to see him?”

  I frowned, recognizing the look in his eyes. “Anderson has a big mouth.”

  I’d met Devon through Anderson. Devon worked for Anderson’s firm. Different department, but Anderson had an eye on him anyway. To hear Anderson tell it, Devon’s insight into the market was extraordinary.

  I tended to picture him in a cowboy hat. Stupid, I know. Blame it on the accent or his penchant for using the word “ma’am” all the time.

  “I think he’s upstairs,” Devon said, tipping his head toward the VIP lounge. “Can you get in?”

  “Of course,” I responded, fighting irritation. The real truth was that without Anderson’s invitation I wouldn’t have even been able to get into the party. But no one wants to feel inferior to a kid. Even a handsome, well-off one. I flashed the invitation for good measure and sent him off with instruction
s to find Lindy.

  A glance in Althea’s direction confirmed I’d been right about the Woman’s Day editor. She was still talking.

  “I’m going to run to the ladies’,” I said to Cybil. “Keep an eye on Althea. I’ll be right back.” It was a risky move. I had the advantage and should have probably taken it, but I needed a moment to prepare.

  I moved through the crowd, stopping a couple of times to air-kiss women I knew, or thought had potential for my list. By the time I reached the restroom, I’d handed out quite a few business cards. If nothing else, at least it would increase the buzz.

  Once through the door, I exhaled and dropped the social smile. After all the hot bodies pressed together outside, the ladies’ room felt like an oasis. I moved to the mirror, pleased to note that despite the crush I hadn’t melted. My makeup was in place, and my dress really did look fabulous. I opened my lip gloss (Chanel Glossimer #65,I swear by it) and was just about to put it on when Lindy Adams walked out of a stall.

  Usually Lindy Adams is one of those perfect blond princesses we all wish we’d grown up to be. The American ideal. Rich daddy, perfect figure, and hair that could inspire the “I’m worth it” people to copy the color. She’s the kind who turns heads—male and female—wherever she goes. The whole package, as it were. It’s enough to make a normal woman want to throw up.

  Except that she’s also one of the nicest women I’ve ever met. The kind who donates to charity because she really cares. And remembers your birthday with frightening regularity. We’d been friends for a couple of years. I’d met her at a Humane Society function—a cause, it turned out, we both shared a passion for. And since then, we’d often worked together in the effort to find safe, loving homes for abandoned animals.

  Okay, enough with me as a do-gooder, the point here is that Lindy didn’t look beautiful at the moment. In fact, she looked downright defeated. And it didn’t suit her at all. There were smudges of mascara beneath both eyes, and the end of her nose was red.

  She’d clearly been crying, and I had a pretty good idea why.

  Damn Devon.

  “Lindy, honey, are you okay?” I asked, trying hard to find a motherly tone.

  “Vanessa.” Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight.”

  If it had come from anyone else’s mouth, it would have been an insult. But from Lindy it was just honest surprise.

  “It was sort of a last-minute thing.”

  “Mark Grayson,” she said with a nod.

  I won’t repeat any of the words that sprang to mind except the bit about busybodies in this town. “Right,” I nodded. “Grayson. But he’s the least of my worries at the moment. I ran into Devon a few minutes ago. He said you were here.”

  “He brought me,” she said, swinging her Kevin Mancuso hair. “Not that he seems to remember the fact.”

  “The brunette.” I didn’t see the point of mincing words. I mean, the mascara was already smeared.

  “You saw her?” Again the eyebrows rose, but this time in anger.

  “Saw her and sent her running in Armando Diaz’s direction.”

  There was a quiver of a smile, but her eyes still filled with tears. Today, apparently, was my day for dealing with wounded women. “He’ll just find another one.”

  “No worries, there’s more than one director here.” My attempt at a joke fell flat. “Look, Lindy, the way I see it, you have two choices. You can either abandon the whole thing or you can fight fire with fire.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” She sniffed. The downside of being such a lovely person is that she hadn’t a clue how to play hardball when it came to a man. Which is, of course, exactly why she had me.

  “All right. Let’s cut to the chase. Do you like Devon?”

  “I do.” She nodded, dabbing at her tears. “Except for the roving eye.”

  “So you don’t want to jump ship?” I waited while she thought about it.

  “No. I really think it clicks between us. It’s just hard to get him to settle down.”

  “But it’s what he really wants.” I said it to myself as much as to Lindy. The boy was a handful to be sure, but in his own way he was sincere. “All right, then, here’s what you need to do.” I took a deep breath and gave her my best “I’m queen of the world” smile. “You’ve got to give him some of his own medicine.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Play hard to get. I know it defeats years of feminist fighting, but the best way to hold the attention of a man like Devon is to stay just beyond his reach. You know most of the people here tonight, right?”

  “Most of them,” she echoed in agreement.

  “All right, so find a couple of the really cute ones and dance your heart out. Flirt, smile, whatever it takes. Keep it just this side of entanglement. And make sure that Devon sees you.”

  “Are you sure that will work?” She looked skeptical. Which was to be expected. Lindy was the kind who played fair. Which was why she was in the Bungalow 8 bathroom in tears.

  “Yeah, think Grease.”

  She gave me a blank stare. God, I was getting old.

  “It’s a movie. From a Broadway musical.”

  Still no reaction.

  “Never mind. The point is, you’re going to make yourself more attractive simply by seeming to be unaffected by his lack of attention. My guess is that Devon has had a long line of adoring girlfriends, and although that’s appealing on paper, it’s kind of cloying in real life. Meaning his roving eye is more of a defense mechanism than anything else.”

  “And you think that if I play hard to get, he’ll lose the defenses.”

  “Hopefully.” I could be wrong, of course, but I tend to read people pretty well, and Devon was nothing if not predictable. “Look, Lindy, you’re everything he wants in a woman. And I think given the right jolt, he’s a good fit for you as well. You just have to make him see it that way. Sometimes the best way to catch a fish is to lure him into the bait. That’s why they’re called fishing lures.”

  She nodded, although I wasn’t entirely sure she followed the analogy.

  The door opened behind me, Cybil following in its wake. “Althea is on the move.”

  I nodded, my blood pressure jumping up a couple of notches. “I’ve got to go. Are you going to be all right?”

  Lindy smiled, pulling off her Stella McCartney sweater to reveal the shell pink camisole underneath. “Better?”

  “Once you fix your mascara, you’ll knock ’em dead.”

  “Devon is the only one I want to knock anywhere.” Spunk is a good thing.

  “Well, save that for after he capitulates. And looking like that,” I eyed her from head to her Rene Caovilla-clad toes, “I think it’s a sure thing.”

  “The movie.” She said with a smile.

  “You’ve seen The Sure Thing?’’ It wasn’t as old as Grease, but I’ve have thought not as well-known.

  “On DVD,” she nodded. “I love John Cusack.”

  I felt tottering-on-my-cane old.

  Cybil tilted her head toward the door. “Althea?”

  I nodded, checked my dress and lipstick, and followed her out the door.

  “What was that all about?” Cybil asked as we made our way toward the VIP bouncer.

  “Trouble in match-made paradise. Devon’s wandering eye didn’t go unnoticed.”

  “So what’s with The Sure Thing?"

  “Actually it was Grease, but she missed the reference. I was telling her to fight fire with fire. You know the drill.”

  “Make herself desirable and scarce.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But surely in the long run she’ll just have the same problem all over again.”

  “If it wasn’t Devon I’d have to agree. But he wants to settle down, remember? And I’m certain that Lindy is exactly what he’s looking for. So it’s just a matter of him accepting the fact.”

  “And once he does, you’ll have another notch o
n your belt.”

  I shot her what I hoped was a caustic look. “I prefer to think of it as another success story. A happy couple. That’s what it’s all about.”

  Cybil didn’t look impressed, but I didn’t have time to argue. We’d reached the überbouncer. Fortunately, the magic gold border did the trick. I flashed the invitation and we were accepted as VIPs.

  The upstairs room was quieter and less crowded than downstairs, but still there was a hum of activity. I scanned the room for signs of Althea or Grayson, finding both easily. Grayson was ensconced in a corner talking earnestly with Walker Frazier, another real estate mogul.

  Althea was only a few feet away, but she’d been stopped by Liz Smith, the Texas transplant and ruler of all things titillating. I subconsciously took a step back but Cybil’s hand on my arm was blocking my retreat.

  “You can do this.”

  “No, I can’t.” I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but I’m a certified chicken when it comes to actually getting my fingernails dirty. Cindy Adams was moving my way though, and if Liz was the queen of gossip, Cindy was definitely a duchess. They were both lovely women, but anything was fair game with the press, and unless I wanted to spill my guts, it was best that I keep moving.

  “Go on,” Cybil said, giving me a shove in the other direction. I felt immediately guilty for not listing her among the stars of the columns. She’s right up there, believe me. And even more important, she’s the best friend a girl could possibly have.

  Especially in sticky situations.

  I made my way around the edge of the room, pausing for one moment to look down at the undulating crowd below me. I spotted Lindy, hair flying as she held her arms up and moved with the music. I didn’t recognize the man dancing with her, but it was enough that he was dark, Latin, and to die for. About ten feet away, Devon stood with his eyes glued to Lindy, the redhead at his side trying in vain to gain his attention.

  Score one for the matchmaker.

  Chapter 7

  Roberto Cavalli Showroom. 745 Fifth Avenue, thirty-first floor (between Fifty-seventh and Fifty-eighth streets), 212.308.5566. Cavalli Boutique. 711 Madison Avenue (corner of Sixty-third Street), 212.753.7722.