Джоанна Рок – Seducing The Matchmaker: One Man Rush / Taking Him Down / The Personal Touch (страница 9)
In some ways, she didn’t blame her father for wanting to help her find a great guy through a matchmaking service. She could honestly see his point. On the other hand, how could she look at herself in the mirror if she allowed her
Initially, she’d hoped that setting her sights on an impossible date request in the form of hockey star Kyle Murphy would buy her time until she figured out what to do next. Sort of a passive-aggressive rebellion. She hadn’t counted on her father being on board with the plan—micromanaging the process and bullying her into attending the fundraiser tonight. In hindsight, she realized the idea of her landing a socially acknowledged great catch had appealed to his competitive side, which was legendary. He’d made Kyle Murphy a personal mission.
What a mess.
“What kind of gentleman would I be if I left a lady alone out here?” Blake Someone-or-other caught up to her and gave her a knowing you’ll-be-mine-soon look that set her teeth on edge. The diamond studs in his eyebrow winked in the light of a streetlamp.
It was a flaw of her character that she couldn’t just tell guys like this to buzz off. For one thing, she expressed herself better in writing, where she had time to think and formulate her ideas. She loved her job with the local paper even though her dad considered it a waste of time. For another thing, she was a confirmed people-pleaser and preferred to coast along without making waves. She was the queen of disappearing after a trip to the ladies’ room.
But Blake Whoever was proving tough to shake. Where was Marissa Collins to run interference?
“Actually,” Stacy improvised, her feet killing her in the new stilettos that had pinched her heels even before she’d twisted her ankle. “My matchmaker insists I don’t start any relationships unless she’s involved. She already spoke to me tonight about agreeing to dance with you without—you know—following proper procedure.”
A flimsy excuse or a stroke of genius? She’d realized early on that Blake had only been hitting on her because of her wealthy father. Concert promoters liked to cozy up to the folks who owned big arenas, the same way her father hoped to woo business from the Murphy family if Stacy dated Kyle.
“You have a matchmaker?” He raised his diamond-studded brow.
“A strict one, unfortunately. My father insisted on it.” She extricated her arm from his hand and hated herself for playing the “dad” card. How would she assert her independence when she still relied on the family clout? “If you’d like, you can catch her in the lobby. Her name is Marissa.”
Putting her feet in high gear, she took advantage of her escort’s hesitation and hurried away as fast as her tyrannical shoes would allow. Weaving around a commercial truck, she never looked back, stopping only when she arrived at her base model American-made minivan. She’d bought the used silver Dodge Grand Caravan after her father berated her for wrecking the new Jaguar he’d bought for her twenty-first birthday. She’d only just gotten her license at twenty-one, after years of being chauffeured at his insistence. Who gave a new driver an expensive foreign car as a first vehicle? He’d been so mad about the wreck, he hadn’t dared yell more when she’d replaced the ride herself with money earned working for the local paper.
She dropped her keys twice and hurried to put the right one in the lock. Was it upside down? The fit seemed tight.
Peering toward where she’d left Blake the Snake, she jammed the key in again and twisted hard.
“Are you trying to wreck my van on purpose?”
A male voice behind her startled her into a partial coronary and she jumped backward half a foot. A rumpled, grouchy-looking man wearing a faded Phantoms T-shirt glared at her. Thick, dark hair curled around his forehead and stood straight up in the middle as if he’d recently tried to pull it out. Low slung jeans revealed a good body, if a little underfed. Dark heavy eyebrows needed waxing about a decade ago. He carried a rolled up poster under one arm, probably fan paraphernalia from the hockey team’s fundraiser.
“Excuse me?” Her heart beat fast as she realized how isolated they were. The doorman seemed a million miles away and her touchy-feeling former dancing partner must have given up.
The man bent to retrieve her keys, which she’d dropped when he’d scared her to death. They were at least four feet away and half under the vehicle in front of hers.
“I wanted to know if you’re trying to break into my van or if you’re just doing your damnedest to scratch the paint.” He handed over the keys and dropped them into her palm, careful not to touch her.
The gesture was so remote and aloof that she felt both grateful he didn’t crowd her and miffed that he’d made such a production of not touching her. A silly thought, obviously.
“Your van?” She scrutinized the vehicle. The gray cloth interior was just as she remembered.
“Yes. Mine.” His gaze narrowed. “Have you been drinking?”
“Of course not.” She tried to put her key in the lock again.
“Would you like me to call you a cab?”
“I’ll be fine, thanks.” Flipping the key, she tested the lock in vain and got a sinking feeling in her stomach.
This wasn’t her van.
“Why don’t you try this one?”
Turning to face him, he held out his set—two keys on a plain silver fob, a far cry from her set of seven on a ring stuffed full of charms, including a stuffed leopard that helped her find them in her purse.
“I must have made a mistake,” she admitted, feeling oddly foolish. She did things like this all the time, so it wasn’t as though she had a problem being in the wrong. She’d accepted her lack of grace long ago—about the same time she’d realized men had tunnel vision when it came to women. Guys who were staring at your cleavage didn’t notice when you tripped over your feet.
Yet the stranger in the Phantoms shirt didn’t seem distracted by her cleavage. He zeroed in on her eyes in the dim light of the parking lot and seemed to see straight through her.
“Do you drive a Caravan?” he asked, not glaring anymore.
“Yes.” Pivoting, she stretched up on her toes to see around the lot. Where the heck had she parked?
And why did the guy in the Phantoms’ shirt make her feel so suddenly naked when he didn’t look at her with even the tiniest bit of male interest?
“I have to say I’m surprised.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t look like you belong in a minivan.”
“I love my Caravan,” she said fiercely, probably because her choice in cars had been questioned by her dad more than once. As she shifted her weight, her feet protested how long she’d spent on the tarmac.
“Me, too. Can I give you a lift to help you find yours?” He edged past her cautiously, giving her plenty of personal space until he took her place in front of the driver’s-side door. “You look like your feet hurt.”
How had he noticed when he hadn’t looked anywhere but her eyes?
“I—um. They do. But I’d better not.” In a conversation full of surprises, she realized she’d had no problem telling him “no.” Maybe because she knew it wouldn’t disappoint him, unlike the guys who tried hard to catch her attention.
“Right. Probably best not to take a ride from a stranger. But I’m sure hotel security has a car. They can help you find your van.” He opened the door easily and shoved the poster he’d been carrying inside. “I think you’re going to need them because there are no other silver Caravans nearby.”
“How do you know?” She craned her neck again.
“I make it a point to know my surroundings at all times.” He extended his hand. “Isaac Reynolds.”
“Stacy Goodwell.” Tentatively, she accepted the handshake. “I’m sorry if I’ve scratched your paint.”
Warm strength surrounded her fingers as he gave her hand a friendly squeeze. Gentle, but competent. She couldn’t remember caring one way or another about a handshake before, but she liked the feel of Isaac.
“I have touch-up paint at home. I’m sure it will be fine.” He released her fingers long before anyone could ever accuse him of flirting with her.
Maybe that was the problem. She didn’t know quite how to relate to a man who showed utterly no interest in her. She was confounded. And, perhaps, charmed because of it.
“On second thought.” Why should she fear a man who was in a hurry to go home and put touch-up paint on his van? She had mace in her purse if her instincts were wrong. “I’d actually appreciate some help finding my vehicle. Would you mind walking down the row with me?”
As flirtation attempts went, it wasn’t much. But she didn’t have any experience on this side of the equation. She’d been pursued so often, she’d never had to do the chasing.
And considering a pressing need to figure out her love life before her father contracted away her rights to it, Stacy liked the idea of making a move on Isaac Reynolds.
For a moment, he studied her with what almost looked like suspicion in his eyes. But that was crazy. Suspicious of what?
“I can do that,” he agreed, nodding.