Captivated By The Tycoon. Anna DePaloЧитать онлайн книгу.
heart beat faster. He was big, male and coated with just a veneer of civility.
Irritated with her reaction, she said, “Because we all know time is money, don’t we?”
Moving past him into the apartment, she added, “That’s the last impression you want to convey to a date.”
He followed her in and closed the door. “But what if I am timing her?”
“Maybe it would be best to save that sort of thing for after the wedding.” She knew it sounded as if they were talking about kinky sex, but proper dating etiquette was important in her book.
He made a sound of disbelief. “All right, duly noted. A patient guy may be the ultimate female fantasy, but he is just a fantasy.”
She smiled encouragingly. “Well, when we’re done, hopefully you’ll be the ultimate female fantasy.”
And, judging from the way her body was humming, he wasn’t doing a half-bad job as it was.
“I’ll start right now by taking your coat,” he said smoothly.
“Thank you.”
The brush of fingers at the nape of her neck sent shivers chasing down her spine.
After depositing her coat in a closet, he said, “Let me show you around.”
She tried to quell the spine-tingling sensations as he gave her a brief tour of the apartment.
The kitchen was spacious, with glass-door cherrywood cabinets, a large marble-topped center island and Miele stainless steel appliances.
In the formal dining room, the walls were painted red above ivory wainscoting and below ivory- painted molding. The chairs were upholstered in red and gold stripes, and several pieces, including the sideboard, looked as if they were antiques.
Lauren couldn’t help contrasting Matt’s dining room with the modest one in the home in Sacramento she’d grown up in, where the chintz wallpaper had been put up by her mother and the furniture bore the dents and scratches of one too many feet, including hers and those of her younger sister and brother.
When they moved on to Matt’s living room, she noted that this room at least was a nod to comfort. Sofas and armchairs, dressed in beige fabric and chocolate leather, clustered around a large fireplace.
The den followed on from the living room. Builtin bookshelves lined two walls, while the windows showcased spectacular views of downtown Boston.
Lauren could tell this was where Matt spent most of his time. The desk was covered with piles of paper and documents, and a laptop lay open. It was the only room so far that contained a trace of disorder.
Finally, they came to a long hallway.
Matt nodded down the rug-covered expanse. “This leads to the bedrooms and baths. A couple of years ago, I had the option to buy the apartment below and make this place into a duplex with a guest wing on the lower floor.” He shrugged. “But the apartment was already more than big enough for a bachelor.”
“Yes, I see.”
The penthouse was masculine and understated, but bore the unmistakable markings of a professional designer’s hand. Still, for all the expense, there was something missing.
It took her a second to figure out what.
There was no warmth to the place. No photographs documenting the occupant’s major life moments, no collectibles from memorable vacations, not even awards hinting at hobbies and favorite pastimes.
In short, Matt Whittaker remained as much a cipher as ever.
“It may need a little helping hand, however,” she said slowly.
“What does?”
“Your apartment.”
He looked around and frowned. “What’s wrong with it? I paid a professional.”
“Exactly.”
“It cost plenty—”
“—but has no heart,” she finished for him. “I’m surprised your designer didn’t incorporate your mementos and prized possessions when she redecorated.”
“The designer was someone recommended by my sister-in-law, and she did. But my stuff is still boxed up.”
“Hmm…and how long ago did you redecorate?”
He did not look amused. “I do a lot of corporate travel. I’m rarely here.”
“If you don’t have time to live in your apartment, you won’t have time to call her for a date.”
He looked ready with a rebuttal, and she restrained herself from tsk-tsking at the forbidding expression on his face.
“The deadline is Wednesday, by the way.”
“Wednesday, for what?”
“The day of the week by which you’ll call her for a weekend date.”
She realized she sounded like a scolding nanny, but it was the only way she knew not to be overwhelmed by him.
“Got it,” he said dryly. “Why do I feel as if I should be taking notes?”
“It may be a good idea. Anyway, traveling frequently would be a good excuse if you had another place you called home instead of—” she gestured around her “—this.”
He arched a brow.
“I’m not going to redecorate your apartment.” She sought to reassure him.
“Happy to hear it.”
“But I would suggest a few pieces to give a woman a clue about you. Maybe some strategically placed photos. Nothing major. We can find some frames that blend with your new decor.”
She was not going to be intimidated by him, she told herself for the umpteenth time. She’d handled high-powered prosecutors and corporate titans without being unnerved.
“Let’s look at your closets next,” she heard herself say. “Then maybe we can take the shopping trip we discussed as a possibility for this afternoon.”
On to his bedroom. She was about to discover what lay at the end of the long hallway in front of her.
His bedroom was huge, easily the size of half her modest apartment. A king-size bed dominated, and the furniture had a contemporary look—dark with clean lines and brushed metal knobs. A master bath was visible through one open door, and a fireplace occupied the wall facing the bed.
She took a deep breath. The room was as imposing as its occupant, but she was a professional. At least as far as matchmaking went, she qualified to herself.
She looked at the closet on the far wall. “May I?”
“Go right ahead.”
When she threw open the double doors, she was confronted by expensive shirts and conservative business suits hanging in neat rows. Everything was a variation on a theme.
“Where’s the casual clothing?” She looked at him, then raised a hand to stop him before he could answer. “No, don’t tell me. You live in suits most of the time.”
He cocked his head. “Very perceptive of you.”
“We’ll have to fix that.”
His look was sardonic. “Do you subject your female clients to this treatment?”
“Absolutely. It’s not about becoming someone you’re not, but about creating a better you.”
“So what do you recommend to the women?”
“Now if I told you, I’d be letting you in on the secret handshake.”
“My lips are sealed.”
She sighed.