Opposites attract when a dating app error pairs free-spirited Rachel with Isaac, a seriously alpha CEO. Their red-hot chemistry leads to a no-strings weekend away, but can their connection last when the real world comes crashing in?

Rachel Stephens is back. Finally free of her domineering ex-husband, Rachel is ready to reclaim her fun, spontaneous, outgoing self. But a mix-up at the test run for dating app Power Match leaves her paired with a very unlikely suitor: the app’s biggest funder, CEO Isaac Miller.

Rachel has no interest in another super alpha power broker, even if Isaac seems to have walked straight out of her most explicit fantasies. But before she can swipe left, Isaac convinces Rachel to give them a shot...and proves that they’re exhilaratingly compatible in one area: between the sheets.

After a lust-fueled weekend in Dublin, Rachel starts to wonder whether she and Isaac should give their matchup a chance. But she’s in for a nasty surprise. The second they arrive back in New York, Rachel and Isaac find themselves on opposite sides of a corporate conflict. And Rachel is faced with an impossible choice: ruin any chance for promotion at her law firm or betray the trust of the one man who just might be her perfect match.

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

KELLI IRELAND spent a decade as a name on a door in corporate America. Unexpectedly liberated by fate’s sense of humour, she chose to carpe the diem and pursue her passion for writing. A fan of happily-ever-afters, she found she loved being puppetmaster for the most unlikely couples. Seeing them through the best and worst of each other while helping them survive the joys and disasters of falling in love… Best. Thing. Ever. Visit Kelli’s website at kelliireland.com.

Matched

Kelli Ireland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08716-2

MATCHED

© 2019 Denise Tomkins

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Note to Readers

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This book was an absolute blast to write, and it is my

strongest wish to dedicate it to every reader out there

who has been brave enough to pursue their dreams with

undiluted, unapologetic passion. You inspire me to do

the same. For that? You have my eternal gratitude.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

ISAAC MILLER WORKED to control his breathing, his heart rate, his every response as he stared out over the New York skyline. Behind him, his brother paced. Jonathan had never been able to settle when nervous anticipation got the best of him, even when they’d been children. But Isaac was less concerned with his brother’s anxiety than the predicament his younger sibling had finagled Isaac into this time.

He turned, every step controlled, his hands locked behind him. Less chance to strangle the little genius who stood in front of him if he kept his hands occupied. “I agreed to fund your new app, Jonathan, but I did not agree to be a test subject. You’re well aware I only answered the questionnaire to help with your testing. I neither intended nor authorized you to use my profile as part of your initial trial.”

“I know, Isaac. I know.” Jonathan paced back and forth, his steps precise, his pattern across the room as tight as any military formation.

His brother would be counting every step to ensure he spent the same amount of energy crossing the room as he did coming back. Same number of steps to and fro. Same view from every window. Same length of stride, as if he’d measured it. The guy was obsessed with patterns and, as part of that, the accuracy of those patterns. He wouldn’t have made a mistake like this. He wouldn’t have accidentally put Isaac Miller, CEO of the capital investment group Quantum Ventures, in a speed-dating pool that would test Jon’s newest app—a dating app—tentatively named Power Match.

But, somehow, Jonathan had done just that.

Isaac crossed his arms over his chest. “Just remove me from the pool of desperate singles willing to allow their love lives to be determined by digital algorithms.”

His brother looked at him, regret and tension etching stress lines across his brow. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Just delete my profile and remove me from the group. If it creates an odd number, replace me with someone else. In fact, use someone from the office.” He pulled out his desk chair and sank into it. “I’ll send out a request for participants. I assure you, someone will volunteer.”

“You can’t send out a request,” Jonathan said in a tone Isaac rarely heard from him. It was a tone that was firm, even demanding. A tone that brooked no argument.

“I beg to differ,” Isaac said softly. Brother or not, Jonathan was here as a client—the head of a start-up venture that Isaac had financed. He believed in his brother’s vision. Even more, he believed in his brother’s history of success in creating apps that went viral. But no one—no one—told Isaac what he could and couldn’t do. He hadn’t become head of one of the world’s premier capital-venture firms by allowing others to dictate what he did, or did not, do. Even family.

“I’m serious, Isaac.” Jonathan dropped bonelessly into one of the guest chairs across from Isaac’s desk. “I input all the data and the app has already pre-paired test subjects for tonight’s meet and greet. To take you out, I’d have to find someone with your identical personal parameters.”

“So do it.”

“I. Can’t.” Jonathan slid lower in the chair. “You’ve already been matched with three volunteer subjects the app determined would suit you. Well, two, anyway.”

Isaac arched an eyebrow.

“According to Lucky, you’re, uh, apparently a bit...” Jonathan waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “Anyway, I can’t just—”

Isaac leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I’m a bit what?”

Jonathan dipped his chin, the younger brother overshadowing the tech genius as he mumbled an indiscernible answer.

“Speak up.”

Jonathan’s head snapped up, his eyes ablaze. “You sound like Dad.”

“I’ve been insulted more gravely than that,” Isaac said. Though not by much, or by anyone Isaac cared about. The coarse observation stung, but he buried the emotion behind the facade he wore like a custom-fit suit. “Go on, then. I’m a bit what?”

Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest. “Lucky says you’re difficult to get along with.”

“And who, pray tell, is Lucky, and why should I give a good goddamn about what he thinks?”

Jonathan snorted. “Lucky is the app’s nickname. You know, like ‘get lucky.’ It’s a play on the common vernacular for getting laid.”

“I get it,” Isaac growled.

“When’s the last time you got lucky? Because, brother to brother, you sound like you could use a little somethin’. Why don’t you shed your corporate persona for a single night, stop suspecting that everyone wants something from you and simply work on getting laid. We’d all be grateful.” The last was muttered with more than a little snark.

Jaw set, Isaac stared at his younger brother. “My private life is off the table.”

“In other words, it’s been a while.” Jonathan shook his head. “When are you going to relax?”

“When it’s reasonably justified.”

“Which will be when...never?” Jon ran both hands through his mop of hair, pushing it off his forehead as he closed his eyes. “I know what this is. I’m not stupid. It’s about Mike. Like everything is always about Mike.”

The name hung like a silent condemnation, and Isaac fought to keep his face neutral as his brother continued, blissfully ignorant of the pain just the name could elicit.

“When are you going to let go of his death, Isaac?” The question was delivered softly, but there was an unmistakable need to understand within the words. “He’s been gone more than twenty years now. And what happened wasn’t your fault. No one blamed you for it. Not even Dad. We all knew it was an accident. There was no way you could’ve stopped it.”

An accident. No way to have stopped it.

Isaac refused to let his brother lure him into discussing the past. They were here to discuss the future. More specifically, the risk he’d taken on Jonathan’s new project. This app was an unknown. That made it dangerous in its own right. It was one thing to invest in it, given Jon’s history of success. It was another to be subject to the initial testing of an unproven product. “Take me out of the test pool, Jonathan. That’s an order.”

A finely shaped eyebrow rose in sardonic, wordless response. “An order? You really do sound like dear old Dad. Look, Isaac, you clearly haven’t been listening to me. What do I need to do to make you understand that what you’re ordering me to do can’t be done? Do I need finger puppets? Flash cards? I’m telling you, Isaac, I can’t take you out of tonight’s test run without scrapping the whole event. My team and I collected information on roughly six hundred volunteers and entered all their data into the software. Your profile was accidentally included and, God only knows how or why, you made the cut. Lucky selected the top ninety-eight that were most likely to find a suitable match. If we pull one participant, we have to find an identical replacement. That’s not possible. So we’d have to cancel tonight’s event, collect a new sample group, reenter their data, rerun the program and reschedule the test event. We can’t do that. Not even for you. The app is set to launch in thirty days, Isaac. I don’t have time to start over with a new test pool.”

“You’re sure there’s not someone who could pose as me?” A last-ditch hope, yes, but Isaac didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to sit across from strange women and see what did, or didn’t, spark between them. He opened his mouth to tell Isaac to simply remove the women he was supposed to meet with when his brother played the one card Isaac had never been able to say no to.

“I need your help. Bad. I don’t want this to go south, Isaac. Not for me and definitely not for my team. They’re depending on this to pay out. I don’t have the same financial demands thanks to my trust fund, but...” He sat up and leaned forward, forearms propped on his knees, and looked at Isaac with undeniable, wholly authentic sincerity. “They have families counting on them. Most of them have kids. You’re my only family. Forget the capital-investment side of things. Just—” Jonathan tunneled his fingers through his hair “—use an alias for all I care. These people don’t run in your social circle. The chance that anyone will recognize you is slim. I need you, Isaac. As my brother. Please.”

It was the please that broke him. That and the reminder that, with their father gone and their mother suffering severe dementia, the two of them were truly all that remained of their family. They had each other. Brothers.

“Don’t expect me to ‘hook up’ with one of the test pool or whatever you’re calling them.”

“TPCs. Test-pool candidates.”

“Whatever. I’ll show up tonight, and then I’m out. Nothing more, Jonathan. Promise me you’ll remove me from the unalterable ‘TPC list’ when the night’s over. No finagling me into a second event. Are we clear?”

Jonathan beamed. “Absolutely. I’ll make sure you’re declared unsuitable for the project at the end of the night. That way you won’t be selected for future events. I promise.”

Isaac sat back in his chair and looked out at the New York skyline. He’d do this for his brother before he slipped back into the predictable solitude of life as he’d crafted it. A life he lived alone.

And alone suited him just fine.

CHAPTER TWO

RACHEL STEPHENS GLANCED at the clock on her bathroom wall for the fourth time in ten minutes. If she called a cab now, she’d be early. The last thing she wanted was to be the first person there. But she didn’t want to be late, either. If only she hadn’t agreed to participate in this ridiculous dating-app test. Her best friend, Casey, had pushed her to apply a couple of months ago during a stay-in movie night—a night that had involved too much wine followed by too many hormone-igniting Chris Hemsworth flicks. Devastating consequences always occurred when she indulged in too much of a good thing. And the wine had been good. But Chris...oh, Chris. He made her thoughts go in directions that were decidedly unsafe.

Rachel’s phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. Her stomach clenched. Around the office, rumors were flying that a big case was coming in, a case that could make or break a junior attorney’s career. Her boss had intimated that, if the filing came through, he would be selecting her to work with him. If he called now, she wouldn’t have to go to this dating-app trial.

A glance at the display dashed her hopes. She swiped to answer, then tapped the speaker icon. “I still blame you for getting me into this.”

Best friend, coworker and fellow junior attorney Casey Bass snickered. “You know you’re glad you were drunk enough to accept the challenge. I’m just pissed that I didn’t make the final cut. I could’ve used the compensation they were offering to help pay for our trip to the Dominican Republic in March. Who was it that told us becoming attorneys would make us rich?”

“A private student-loan officer who spun wild tales of riches beyond our wildest dreams.”

Casey sighed with enough drama for the both of them. “I’m still waiting for my ship to come in.”

“So that’s why you’re always hanging out by the docks. And here I thought you were just trolling for sailors.”

Her friend’s laughter soothed her nerves some. “Whatever works.”

“Look, I’m just happy I was able to afford real chicken and fresh vegetables on my grocery list this month. And the trip to the Dominican will help ease the pain I experience every time I write out the current month’s student-loan check.”

“True enough.” Casey sighed as she shifted her bedding around, and Rachel could imagine Casey curled up in a nest of blankets and pillows with her laptop, working, as some random Netflix show looped in the background. “So. What are you wearing?” Casey asked.

“If you’d asked me that in a deeper voice, I’d tell you.” Rachel leaned forward and applied her mascara with care. “As it is, you’ll have to wonder.”

“Just promise me you’re not wearing your black power suit, black heels and carrying your black Burberry bag. You think it’s stylish, but you look like a monochromatic ad for a high-end funeral home. A gorgeous one, mind you, but still. Wear something with color. Oh! Wear that dark green dress—the one with the V-neck and the slit up the thigh.”

“Casey, that dress was the result of a sip-and-shop event. Seeing as tonight is a result of another night spent with wine as my intimate companion, I’ve decided the fermented grape and I are absolutely not friends.”

“I disagree. Wine is generally the catalyst behind your best decisions.”

“You’re an enabler.” Rachel capped the mascara and stepped back, taking in her black power suit, black heels and black Burberry bag, which sat on her bed. When had she become so—so...predictable? She used to be spontaneous, fun, outgoing. A bit of a rebel, if truth be told. The way her life had played out over the last several years had made her overly cautious, had taught her to be conservative when making decisions. She’d become content blending into a crowd instead of standing out. Truth? If someone accused her of being a total bore, she had no defense.

“Safe,” she whispered. She would argue she was safe.

“What’s safe?” Casey asked.

The question hung between them, and Rachel had no doubt that Casey knew exactly what was going through her head.

“Stop playing it safe, Rach. Jeff left, but you survived. It’s time to thrive. Take the fact that you made the cut for tonight’s little experimental soiree as a sign that it’s time to start living again. Maybe even time to get laid.”

“Casey!”

“Oh, c’mon, Rachel. It’s not like I don’t know you and your vibrator are ridiculously intimate.”

“No more than you and yours,” Rachel countered.

“Not denying it. But at least I’m out there, playing the field, looking for someone. Even if he’s a Mr. Right Now versus Mr. Right. You need to do a little of the same. No one is ever going to be one hundred percent safe, Rachel. No one is ever going to be able to chase away your demons. You’re the only one with that power.” She paused, took a deep breath and let it out before continuing, her next words so much softer. “Honey, you have to stop holding on to Jeff’s memory. He was an asshole. You can’t see it now, but trust me. I’m begging you. His walking out? It was a good thing and, deep down, you know it. He changed you, nearly suffocated you with his dos and don’ts. He tried to make you into the breadwinner, the Stepford wife and his personal fetch-it girl. For God’s sake, he was unemployed more than half your married life.”

“He managed to snag an heiress.” The admission was thick. Heavy.

“An heiress whose family made their money by revolutionizing the laxative industry. A shit for a shit. It’s so apropos.”

The sound Rachel made was half laugh, half sob.

“Like I said, what you need is Mr. Right Now, Rachel. Stop disqualifying every man who comes on to you. Instead, look for the opportunity to have fun. It’s the only way you’re going to break that last tie, Rach. And it’s time. Let. Him. Go.”

She knew Casey was right. Even if it was just for a single night, Rachel needed to try to relish every moment. She needed to be adventurous instead of cautious, a sexual creature who took chances despite the odds and dared Fate to strike back.

It was time she proved to herself that, though Jeff might have left her damaged, he hadn’t been able to break her.

No one was that strong.

Casey’s voice was softer when she spoke, as if she knew where Rachel’s thoughts had taken her. “Pull your hair down out of the predictable chignon, put on that damn green dress and go have a good time. Don’t do it for me, though. Do it for you—for the woman you were and will be again. Starting now.”

Familiar doubt crept in. She’d once been brave, adventurous, more than a little bit wild. She’d liked herself then. Jeff had liked her, too. It had changed after they’d married, his concept of wifely behavior so different than the woman he’d married. It wasn’t lost on her that the woman Jeff had left her for was exactly the type of woman Rachel had been. The woman who was on everyone’s invite list. The woman who was full of enthusiasm and possessed an easy way about her. Someone with a quick wit and an adventurous spirit.

“Don’t go down that dark path, Rachel. Please.”

It was the please that did her in. Casey didn’t beg. Ever. And here she was, reduced to pleading with Rachel to live her life?

“You make a hell of a compelling closing argument, Case.”

“You always said cases are easy to win when you know you’re right.”

With shaking hands, Rachel undid the buttons on the black suit jacket, then shed the heels and the pants. She pulled out the dark green sheath dress, cut off the tags and slipped it on. Next, she grabbed the pair of black patent-leather stilettos from the back of the closet—shoes she’d sworn to only wear when she finally worked up the moxie to wear the dress.

Tonight was the night.

Pulling the pins from her hair, she let the mass of mahogany waves tumble down her back. She bent at the waist and flipped over her hair, fluffing it with her fingers until it was free and loose and a bit wild. She flipped it back and turned to face herself in the mirror.

She couldn’t help but smile. The woman looking back at her was someone she hadn’t seen in far too long, but she would have recognized her anywhere. A quietly confident laugh escaped her, the sound also something she hadn’t heard in a while, and she had missed it.

“You did it,” Casey whispered. “You put on the damn dress.”

“I did.”

The other woman let out what could only be described as a whoop. “Go get him, tigress! Own tonight!”

“No apologies.”

“No regrets,” her best friend in the world said. “You better come by my office the minute you get in tomorrow morning because I’m telling you now, I want deets. Dirty, dirty deets.”

“We’ll see if there’s anything to tell. I have to make a connection first. And it has to be real.”

“Let’s agree on this now because I know that if you tell me you’ll do something, you’ll do it. Always. You don’t break vows.”

Rachel swallowed hard. “Agree on what, exactly?”

“The three qualifications Mr. Right Now has to have to pass the Rachel Stephens test.”

“Three?” Rachel squeaked.

“Three.”

“A guy has to have more than three qualifications for me to consider getting down and dirty.”

“No, he doesn’t. If we were discussing Mr. Right? Sure. But we aren’t. This is Mr. Right Now. So three it is.”

Rachel scowled.

“You’re almost six feet yourself, so he has to be tall,” Casey said, starting the list.

“Kind,” Rachel countered.

“Kind is for counselors and protein bars.”

“Casey,” Rachel warned.

“He needs to be seriously hot.”

“Intelligent,” Rachel countered. While a guy being hot was nice, his looks did nothing to help a conversation along if he wasn’t bright.

“Intelligent can be a bonus qualifier. This is a one-night stand, Rach, not someone who’s boyfriend material.”

“Fine. But, Casey?” She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to imagine what strangers might see when they looked at her. “There has to be chemistry. Real chemistry. That’s not negotiable.”

“Then there’s your list.”

“What?” Panic nearly choked her. “That’s not enough!”

“Yes, it is. For a one-night stand, it’s plenty.” That tone—it was one Rachel recognized.

That tone meant Casey had reached the point she was about to let down the facade she sported, the one of the fun-loving, slightly ditzy blonde femme fatale. One could push Casey only so far and then boom! She dropped the facade and the hard-ass took over. Rachel had her own version, she supposed. Or she had once. Regardless, she didn’t want to fight with Casey. She needed her too much right now.

“Now promise me—swear to me—that if you meet a guy with these three qualities, you’ll make a play.”

Rachel swallowed once, then twice, through a throat clenched tight in history’s unyielding fist. She took a deep breath, admiring the way the dress made her full B-cup breasts look just a little larger, the push-up bra making her cleavage just a little more substantial than it really was. “Remind me to send a thank-you note to Victoria’s Secret for their water bra.”

Casey laughed. “Deets, girlfriend. I want the down and dirty tomorrow because I’m telling you now, there will be a connection tonight.”

Rachel closed her eyes and smiled. Maybe Casey was right. Maybe tonight was the night she’d back take her life.

No. No maybes about it. Tonight was the night. She would own it, and whatever happened? Happened. “I promise,” she whispered. “Casey?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m back.”

The other woman sniffled, the sound small but undeniable, and her voice wavered a bit when she spoke. “I’ve missed you, Rach.”

“Me, too, honey. Me, too.” She stood up straight and took one last look at herself in the mirror. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have men to meet and connections to make.” She paused for a split second, trying to find the right words. Then she said, “Thank you, Casey. Thank you for standing by me and for reminding me who I really am.”

“Thank you for finally listening. Now go slay the last of your dragons, and do it without remorse.” The grin on her friend’s face translated seamlessly to her tone.

“No regrets,” she affirmed.

Casey disconnected the call without another word.

Rachel grabbed her satin clutch and dropped her bold red lipstick inside before snapping the little bag closed. One last glance in the small mirror beside her front door confirmed that the woman who looked back was ready.

Her eyes shone with a vitality she had missed for a very long time. She took a deep breath and pressed a fist against her abdomen in an attempt to settle sudden nerves fluttering behind her belly button. It didn’t matter if the man she connected with was Casey’s brother, the bartender or one of the software engineers for the Power Match app. If there was chemistry, she was going to see this through. A liberation, of sorts. But more, a definitive reclaiming of her life.

A small, involuntary smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

No regrets, indeed.

CHAPTER THREE

ISAAC STOOD AT the bar, the crowd at his back, and sipped a dirty martini. Two olives. Shaken, not stirred. Alcohol—something he rarely indulged in—was the evening’s only saving grace.

Seeing as he had no intention of actually trying to find a partner tonight, it seemed pointless to pay any attention to the singles milling around the room. That included the three women who had, one at a time, attempted to engage him in conversation. He’d politely excused himself to speak to an acquaintance here or there, or to go back to the coat check to retrieve the phone he’d claimed he’d forgotten. Each woman had been irritated but had accepted his unsubtle dismissal. Not an ounce of real moxie in any of them. It surprised him that he was mildly disappointed.

Behind him, the crowd mingled and made small talk as they tried to figure out whom in the group they might end up paired with. There was a great deal of forced laughter from women and posturing from men. Both groups were trying too hard. So Isaac continued to sip his drink and ignore them all.

The moderator entered his peripheral view, and he watched as she took over the small platform where the DJ likely held court on any given night. The woman, whom Isaac recognized from one of the meetings between his investment firm and Jonathan’s lead team, fiddled with the mic. What was her name...? Jamie? Janie? Something like that. She’d been impressive; he remembered that much. She was the team’s lead psychologist, stolen from a competitor, and the person singularly responsible for creating the personality-profiling system that Jonathan had turned into code.

Jaline.

Her name was Jaline.

The mic screeched, and the crowd winced before someone started clapping and everyone followed suit.

Jaline took a mock bow, then lifted the mic. “Good evening. My name is Jaline. You’re all here because—”

Half listening to Jaline’s presentation and half developing the following morning’s agenda, Isaac pulled his phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. There was no reason the interim couldn’t be turned into productive time. Opening the phone’s note-taking app, he began to tap out a rough outline for the first of three meetings scheduled before noon.

A round of applause had him lifting his head and looking around. People had begun to move en masse, approaching the makeshift stage from where Jaline had been speaking.

Isaac signaled the bartender. “What did I miss?”

“Instructions on how to find the love of your life, apparently.” The guy grinned. “If it were that easy, I’d be out of a job.”

Shaking his head, Isaac handed the guy a twenty. “Another drink, my friend, and the CliffsNotes version of the speech I just ignored.”

“Make your way to the table, pick up the paperwork with your first name, last initial and unique participant ID. Men go the numbered table to which they’ve been assigned.” The bartender shook the drink with expertise and poured it with little more than a glance at the glass. “The app’s magic algorithms ensure that at least one woman who has a compatible personality and similar interests will make her way to your table. If you’re lucky, Cupid will follow before the clock strikes twelve—” he slid the drink to Isaac “—or the bar closes at two. Whichever comes first.”

“Funny guy,” Isaac murmured into the glass before taking a sip.

The alcohol burned his throat, and the pungent fumes left him craving clean, unfiltered air. Maybe this weekend he’d head up to the Poconos. For all that he loved the city—its vibrancy, international community and resulting diverse culture—there was nothing like New York’s mountains in the fall.

“Isaac?”

He turned toward the familiar voice. “Hello, Jaline.”

She handed him his packet and visibly cringed. “Sorry. Jonathan said to make sure you didn’t skip out.”

Irritation prickled along his hairline and he rubbed at the sensation, trying to get it to go away. “I told him I wouldn’t bail on him, and I won’t.”

“Fair enough. My job is to get you your paperwork and see you seated at table twelve. Then? I’m out, and you’re on your own with the women Lucky paired you with.”

“Fantastic.” In reality, this whole thing was anything but.

Taking the paperwork, he made his way to table twelve, well aware the woman watched his every move. He had to wonder what she’d do if he feinted toward the door, but he didn’t. He was many things—unnecessarily cruel wasn’t one of them. That he’d even considered it was evidence as to how much the evening had worn on him. Only brotherly affection kept him from walking out. Jonathan had made it clear he needed Isaac to see this through. And at the end of the night, Isaac would be disqualified for any future test runs of the Power Match app.

Whatever. It amused him that he would end up being declared insufficient. That hadn’t ever happened to him before.

Sinking into a chair, he set his drink and paperwork on the table and then shrugged out of his suit jacket. Less than two minutes passed before he found himself putting the jacket on again.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, yanking the jacket so it hung straight and then rearranging his tie. “It’s a couple hours of one night of my life. Nothing more. I’ve been civil for far longer and under worse conditions.” He picked up his martini glass and gave Jaline, who still watched him, a somber salute. “I’ll survive.”

With the lyrics from that same iconic 70s song ringing through his head, he smiled benignly as the first woman approached his table.

* * *

Rachel leaned over the ladies’-room counter and reapplied her lipstick. The sound system had been piped into the spacious room, so she heard the moderator calling participants together to attend what was deemed their final “power match.” The woman’s enthusiasm grated on Rachel’s nerves, particularly since her first two meet and greets had been unmitigated catastrophes.

“Calling all lab rats together for the final observation session of mating behaviors as they occur in an urban environment,” someone said from behind a closed stall door.

“In a controlled urban environment,” someone else qualified from another stall.

The two commentators laughed.

Rachel didn’t.

Were they right? Was that all this was—a structured environment where psychologists would watch with an educated eye and report their findings back to the mysterious people who designed apps like this? What would they do with the personal information when the app went live? She racked her brain, trying to remember the contract language regarding using an applicant’s personal information for advertising and promotional purposes.

Damn it. Wine haze had her questioning what she thought she remembered.

She knew better than to sign anything, even her bar tab, when she’d had that third glass of red.

Could she back out? Yes, but she needed the cash offered to participants to pay off the remaining balance on her March trip with Casey to the Dominican Republic. If she didn’t collect the two grand, she’d be seriously hard-pressed to make that vacation happen. And she needed that vacation. Two weeks in paradise. No incessantly ringing phones. No senior attorneys treating her like she was a secretary instead of an active member of the New York State Bar. No ten-and twelve-hour days ending with cold Chinese takeout. No Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons in the office trying to catch up. No insane commute that involved crowded subway stations, jostling crowds at every crosswalk or attempts to avoid the unpredictable weather.

Two weeks of complimentary drinks, fine dining, spa services and beach chairs situated just out of reach of the surf.

“For that, I can tolerate a hell of a lot more than being called a lab rat,” she said to her reflection.

An attractive woman left one of the stalls, stepped up to the mirror and began fussing with her hair. “You here for the dating thing?”

“Yeah.” Rachel glanced over. “You?”

“No. I’m Jaline’s assistant.”

Rachel searched her brain for the name but came up empty. “Jaline?”

“Jaline Harkins. The moderator.” Making an O with her mouth, the woman used a piece of tissue to clean up the places she seemed to think her lipstick had feathered. “She’s the doctor—well, she’s a psychologist but has her PhD—for the app developer. She worked for the number one dating app in the United States, developing the software that helped them get to where they were. But the guy who came up with the app that paired powerful men and women? He came in and stole her right out from under the competition.”

A warning bell sounded in Rachel’s head. “If she had a noncompete, and I can’t imagine she didn’t, she’s violating the terms of her employment.” And any reasonably intelligent employer would have had a noncompete in place if this woman, Jaline, had exclusive access to proprietary information like the competitor’s software.

Jaline’s assistant elegantly lifted one shoulder with obvious indifference. “No idea. All I know is that Jaline took me with her.” The stranger casually glanced at Rachel from the corner of her eye. “Jaline even got me a raise out of the whole thing. She told me that the guy who scooped us has some pretty serious capital backing. And with Jaline handling the psychology between good and bad matches? This new app is going to be a huge success.”

Rachel had no idea what she was expected to say to that, so she just nodded.

“What do you do?” the other woman asked.

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Cool. Your first two matches—what did you think?” The woman didn’t give Rachel time to answer before continuing. “If you’ll excuse me, she’ll need me on the floor as the men try to navigate the paperwork for this final power match. Even men deemed professionally powerful need an assistant if forms are involved. Best of luck finding Mr. Right,” she called over her shoulder as she left the bathroom and returned to the bar.

“I just need to find Mr. Right Now,” Rachel said to the empty air. Neither man she’d been paired with so far had even come close.

The first man had her looking around to see if the whole event was actually a practical joke...one made wholly at her expense. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been. “King John” owned a line of portable toilets used at construction sites and such. “John ain’t my name. It’s Bruce,” he’d said. “But I’m talkin’ ‘John’ as in shitter, sweet cheeks. Get it?”

The “King” had tried to pump her for legal advice for the first thirty minutes of their forty-five-minute introduction. When she’d said that she didn’t give legal advice outside the office, he’d shrugged. Then his face lit with enthusiasm. He offered to take her on a tour of his “personal facilities” as he slid his filthy booted foot up the inside of her bare leg while waggling his eyebrows and asking, again, if she “got it.”

She stood, told him she definitely “got it” and said that if he didn’t get out before the next session, she’d have him thrown out. Then she went straight to the bar and ordered a mojito.

The second man she’d been matched with had been so initially forgettable that he seemed harmless—he reminded her of an actor who played a scientist on a popular sitcom. As irony would have it, the guy was actually a scientist. He held a doctorate in astronomy from MIT. But he also lived in his mother’s basement and was a certified conspiracy theorist. He had spent the entire time telling her that the evening’s events were part of a breeding study being carried out by the government.

When the bell announcing the conclusion of the second match sounded, Rachel had nearly tipped over her chair as she stood and headed for the bar. That hadn’t stopped the guy from calling out an invitation to go back to his mom’s place “to copulate in the name of science.”

Her second drink had been a shot of tequila.

So had her third, and she hadn’t even met the third man she’d been paired with.

She also hadn’t been the only woman at the bar. The bartender had been pouring as fast as he could for the mass of women crowding the counter, all of them sporting some level of shock.

If she was honest with herself, it seemed most prudent at this point to simply cut and run. She wasn’t even opposed to leaving her coat. It could be replaced. Her sanity? No such guarantees. Yes, she needed the money for her vacation. But she was more than willing to eat a ramen-only diet to pay off the trip’s outstanding balance. And if that wasn’t enough, she’d borrow from her 401(k). Anything had to be better than this.

Decision made, she left the women’s room and headed for the exit.

Someone lightly touched her arm, and Rachel spun to find the moderator, Jaline, looking at her. “Is something wrong?”

“You could say that. First, I was felt up by the steel-toed work boot of the man I wouldn’t have selected as a partner if humanity’s very existence hung in the balance. I told him to leave without consulting you, but I also likely saved you sexual-harassment charges. You’re welcome, but make sure he’s taken off the roster for future events. I mean it.” She knew she sounded as crazed as she felt, but there was no reining it in. “My second match is a conspiracy theorist who probably believes Star Trek—any generation—was a documentary. He offered to procreate, in his bedroom in his mother’s basement, in the name of science. I don’t know where you found these guys, but they aren’t even remotely the type of partners we were promised. They aren’t like-minded. They aren’t civilized. And they certainly aren’t gentlemen. Given the looks on most of the women’s faces at the bar, you’re going to need to provide post ‘power match’ therapy to help them get over the horrors of agreeing to this farce.”

Chest heaving, she turned to go, but Jaline stopped her, this time grabbing her arm with enough force to startle Rachel. The woman’s eyes were wide, her expression harried.

“Please, Ms....”

“Stephens. Rachel Stephens.”

“Please, Ms. Stephens. Rachel. I’ll personally ensure the first man is removed from our test pool and flag his application as an automatic rejection if he tries to reapply. I’ll also have the second man’s application reviewed to see how he got through to the test phase. Neither of these men represents Power Match’s ultimate bachelor. Please, stay through the last round of introductions? As a test applicant, your participation helps us sort out any glitches in the app before it goes live.” The diminutive woman shuddered. “Can you imagine what would happen if we didn’t figure this stuff out first?”

Rachel hesitated. “I appreciate the position you’re in, but it’s been a colossally bad night, Jaline. I just want to go home.”

The woman held out her hand for Rachel’s crumpled paperwork. “I’ll make you a deal. Let me personally vet the final candidate you’ve been paired with. If I don’t think he’s a good match, I’ll see you out myself and sign your paperwork so you can still collect the compensation.”

Rachel clutched her paperwork. “Let me get this straight. If he’s not legit, if he’s another ‘glitch,’ I get to leave and I still get paid as if I’d sat through all three rounds.”

“You have my word.” Jaline eased the paperwork from Rachel’s fist and flipped through several pages. “By choosing to stay, you’re helping to ensure this doesn’t happen...” Her gaze snapped to Rachel’s. “You’re going to want to stay.”

“Why?” Skepticism weighted the one-word question. “Who is he?”

“Your next power match is...” Her cheeks flushed, and she fanned herself.

Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re actually blushing. Who is this guy?”

“I’ll allow him to introduce himself. But I’ll promise you ahead of time that he’s incredibly easy to look at, he’s the very definition of corporate success and he’s a gentleman through and through. You aren’t going to want to miss this introduction.”

Curiosity always got the best of her in the worst situations, and this evening certainly qualified as a personal “worst.”

Jaline seemed to sense her hesitation and leaned in close, speaking low enough that only Rachel could hear her. “I’ll stay within sight. If he says or does anything you don’t like, just...” She looked around and ended up pulling a rubber band out of her little bag. “Put your hair up in a topknot and I’ll come running.” When Rachel still didn’t agree, the woman took her by the arm and steered her across the room, every step taken with undeniable purpose. They neared a table at the far corner of the dance floor. A man sat alone, his back to the room, balancing his chair on the two rear legs. The lazy way he rocked forward and back announced to anyone and everyone that he was thoroughly bored.

His short, black hair was neatly trimmed. His suit was cut so it framed his broad shoulders and, even slouched as he was, he was tall.

“That’s him?” she asked, squashing an unexpected wave of anticipation.

“Yes.” Jaline threw her a little side-eye. “He’ll be worth your time. Trust me.”

Rachel scowled at her. “I never trust people who say ‘trust me,’” she murmured.

“Wise,” the man said.

She shot Jaline a wide-eyed look. “Supersonic hearing?”

Jaline slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

He turned just enough to offer her a glance at his profile. “Nothing so extraordinary. I’m just used to people talking about me behind my back.”

Tall.

Check.

From what she could see? Smoking hot.

Check-check.

If chemistry sparked between them?

A shiver ran up her spine.

Rachel pulled out her chair and slowly sat, facing the man she hadn’t expected to find.

Mr. Right Now.

CHAPTER FOUR

ISAAC LOOKED UP as the chair opposite him was pulled away from the table. A woman in a dark green dress sank onto the seat with incredible grace, setting her clutch in her lap before crossing her legs in a controlled move that drew his attention. His gaze rested on the dress’s short hem before he realized that her legs were bare. In October.

Isaac shifted slightly in his seat. He had always appreciated the way women’s bodies appeared deceptively softer, their more subtly sculpted lines and lithe forms imbued with inherent grace. And when a woman worked to enhance those fine lines and fluid form? He appreciated it all the more. Without a doubt, the woman who had taken a seat across from him put in more than sufficient time to hone her form. She’d done such a magnificent job that, embarrassingly, Isaac found himself staring.

Appreciating.

Craving.

The woman began tapping a well-manicured fingernail against the small bag in her lap. “Let me know when you’re done with the physical assessment. The timer on our little meeting starts in—” she twisted in her chair, then twisted back “—about three minutes.”

“Plenty of time, then.”

“Time for...”

“Surely you’ve heard how important first impressions are.”

Her finger—the one tap-tap-tapping her handbag—went still. “And what, exactly, are you doing to secure that all-important first impression?”

“I’m sitting here trying not to intimidate you.”

She laughed then, the sound as promising as room-temperature bourbon poured over chilled whiskey stones.

“Do that again,” he said quietly, his gaze hovering at the highest point of the slit in the dress, the one that exposed a thin strip of smooth skin on the outside of her upper thigh.

“Do what again?” she asked in that sin-and-redemption voice.

“Laugh.”

“Make me.”

Isaac leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Who was she, this stranger, that she thought she stood a chance in hell of ordering him to do anything at all?

Had the dress she was wearing been displayed in a museum, it would have been called “Temptation in Textiles.” And with just cause. It was cut so that it showcased her best physical assets—long legs, trim waist, pert breasts, pale skin and that elegant neck, half-hidden by the mass of loosely curled mahogany hair. That strong jaw.

He liked defined characteristics in a woman—knew men who much preferred their women softer, both in form and personality. Not him. As far as Isaac was concerned, strength was strength. And strength trumped softness each and every time.

Whoever this woman was, she understood the value of strength.

But she didn’t realize whom she was facing off with.

He tried to decide what color he’d call her skin. From that glimpse of thigh to the line of her jaw, the tone was that of diluted honey—warm but not quite tan. The sun would give her more warmth if she spent much time outdoors. But he knew she didn’t. The finger that had tapped her bag was too smooth, unblemished, to belong to someone who did anything outside besides, perhaps, run.

Another look at her legs and, yes, she was a runner.

She smiled, and his attention shifted to her lips.

Lush but not bee-stung. Not thin. Lips that framed a decidedly smart mouth.

For now, that was amusing. And now was all they’d have. He glanced at the meeting timer. Forty-three minutes.

“If you’re bored, you could try conversation. It’s a universally accepted means of passing the time.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Are you always so...”

“Quick-witted?” she offered.

“Snarky.”

She shrugged. “Semantics.”

He quieted, waiting to see what she would add in the hanging silence.

She stared at him, also waiting on...something. What? Conversation? Yet the longer they sat there, the more clear it became that she might just be able to wait him out.

Seconds passed, crossing the one-minute mark and dragging on before she couldn’t stand the building tension and broke the silence.

“Okay,” she said, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the table, her breasts pressed together by her biceps so that her cleavage nearly doubled. “I’ll get the ball rolling. What’s your name?”

He rose.

She followed suit.

He held out a hand.

She stared at it for a moment and then offered her own hand in return.

A jolt of awareness passed through him not unlike a mild electrical shock. “I’m Isaac Miller.”

“Rachel Stephens.”

“And what do you do for a living, Ms. Stephens?”

“Please, call me Rachel.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t look away. “Isaac.”

“I’m a lawyer... Isaac.”

He sank back into his seat and folded his hands across his abdomen. “You’re a rare woman, Rachel.”

“And how did you come to that determination in under five minutes?” There was a smile hidden in the question as she sat down.

“You’re an attorney.”

“Yes.”

“Are you successful?”

“Each person measures success against different markers.”

“By your own, then.”

She lifted one shoulder, her head tilting to the side as she considered him. “By my measure? Yes. But there are still mountains to climb and glass ceilings to shatter.”

He nodded in agreement. “You’ll get there. You clearly have a mind that complements your appearance.”

“I look smart?” Surprise played through her wide gaze.

He fought the urge to smile. Letting go of his iron control now wouldn’t do. But she deserved clarification. “You look absolutely stunning, to be frank. What I meant was that your mind seems as attractive as your—”

“My body,” she said, surprising him.

He had wanted to say “body,” but that wasn’t acceptable. Not by his or society’s standards.

“Admit it,” she teased. “That’s what you were going to say, but you backed yourself into a conversational corner.”

“Certainly...not.” One corner of his mouth turned up against his will when Rachel laughed again. The sound shot through him, landing at the base of his spine, making his balls draw up tight.

She leaned forward and, in a stage whisper, said, “That was a pathetic cover.”

“It was,” he admitted. Curiosity rarely provoked him to action, but tonight it won over his typically analytical approach. “May I ask you something, Rachel?”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?” she countered. When he paused, she pressed. “I’m looking for honesty, Isaac. Not wordplay.”

He sat back in his seat. A woman who openly asked for honesty...and, he believed, meant it. Isaac’s curiosity was more piqued than ever.

“Fine. Long story short, I wasn’t supposed to be a candidate, but I came tonight to appease the app developer.”

“Who is he to you?”

“A...client.” Isaac rolled his shoulders. She didn’t need to know who Jonathan was. It wasn’t relevant.

“A client.” She tilted her head to one side, considering him. “And what is it you do, Isaac?”

“I work with a capital-investment firm.”

“So your company bankrolls ideas and software or software applications other people come up with and then you...what? How do you get back your initial investment?”

“We essentially buy into whatever the idea or product is and, in exchange for start-up funding, we become part owners in the new venture. If that venture is successful, my firm is paid something equivalent to dividends on that success.”

“So you help people get started and then ride their coattails indefinitely.” She gave him an innocent look that forewarned him that whatever came next would be sharp. Or clever. Perhaps both. “Sounds a bit like a high-end pyramid scheme.”

Both.

And it fascinated him. Here sat a woman who didn’t stroke his ego. A woman comfortable in her skin. A woman who knew her worth. He hadn’t experienced anyone like her before. Similar, but no one had ever possessed the entire package—the one that made up his perfect woman. But here she sat, wearing confidence like a cloak, sexuality like stilettos, and wielded her curiosity like a sword.

He would have to mind himself. Because by doing nothing more than being true to herself, Rachel Stephens threatened Isaac’s vow to get in and out of tonight’s social experiment without making a connection.

The alarm sounded, signaling they had just fifteen minutes before their time together reached its scheduled end.

Realization that this meeting was nearly over moved Isaac to act, something he never did without weighing the consequences, measuring pros and cons. Not now, though. Now? He had to admit he wasn’t ready to walk away from this woman, and he’d do whatever he had to do to ensure their time together wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

Whatever he did, he had to figure out what the hell was happening between them.

* * *

Anticipation hummed along every nerve in Rachel’s body, but the feeling was, without a doubt, most concentrated in the most inconvenient places. The back of her neck. Her breasts. The lowest part of her pelvis. Her entire sex. There was no denying that Isaac Miller scored one hundred percent when graded against the Mr. Right Now trifecta scorecard.

She could’ve added a few extra attributes—maybe humility or even... Oh, who cared. Nothing so mundane would really matter when it came down to brass tacks. Or silk sheets.

So, with fifteen minutes left in the evening, she had to admit that she had found a man who qualified as Mr. Right Now. And she owed herself a win.

That meant figuring out if Isaac was interested in her before the final bell rang and, if he was, how to get things to go down the path that ended with rumpled sheets and a little pillow talk prior to saying their farewells.

But before she could test the waters, he parked his elbows on the table and pressed his hands together, almost as if he was praying. Dark blue eyes that had been casually guarded all night were suddenly serious. “How confident are you in your poker face?”

“Very,” she replied without even a moment’s hesitation. “I’d be a pretty shitty lawyer if my face gave away everything I was thinking.”

“Do you consider yourself a good lawyer?”

“I do.” She offered no apology for her surety. Why should she? Then an idea struck. Scooting forward until she sat on the edge of her seat, she crossed her arms and placed them on the table. “What about you, Isaac? Are you any good at your job?”

“The best.”

She’d anticipated as much.

Putting her weight on her elbows, she decided to test the waters. “And how’s your poker face?” She spoke softly so that he’d have to either lean forward to hear her or ask her to speak up. Her gut said that if he was into her, he’d lean in. If he wasn’t, he’d ask her to repeat what she’d said.

He leaned in on the first word.

Score one for intuition.

“Also the best.”

“Are you willing to make a little wager, maybe see which one of us possesses the superior poker face?”

“Perhaps.” He blinked slowly, the heat in his gaze making her clench her thighs. And when he next spoke, she found herself leaning forward to hear him. “And how do you propose we do that?”

“A game.” God, was that breathy voice actually hers? “Seven-card stud. One round. Winner takes all.”

“What’s the prize?”

The urge to put herself out there overruled her common sense and any reservations she’d held on to up until that point. “One night.” She looked down, gauged her timing, then slowly looked up. Met his blazing gaze, licked her lips and lowered her voice even further. “Together. No strings. No regrets.”

His gaze locked on the bare skin of her thigh and lingered longer than could be deemed polite. She tapped the table and his attention snapped back to her.

“Deal.”

A sharp thrill coursed through her and she rose from her seat. Isaac reclined and hooked an arm over the chair back, looking up at her. “I don’t suppose you have a deck of cards handy, do you?”

“What, you don’t keep a set on hand for situations just like this?”

“My spare is in my other suit jacket.”

“Of course.” She swept low and retrieved her clutch and then, with all the casualness she could muster, she inclined her head toward the front door. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

Her stomach somersaulted, rolling over and over before coming to a shaky halt. Thank God it was right side up.

This was the moment when she had to decide. Be bold and brazen, or reserved and, likely, peppered with regret come dawn.

“Bold,” she said so softly that Isaac’s attention focused on her mouth and he seemed to be trying to read her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Rachel closed her eyes, searched and found her emotional center and whispered a small promise to never again forget who she was, no matter what happened in the next thirty seconds.

She opened her eyes, held out her hand and said, “What do you say we get out of here and find a deck of cards?”

CHAPTER FIVE

ISAAC IMPATIENTLY WAVED off his driver and opened the town car’s rear passenger door for Rachel. He jogged around to the other side and stopped for a moment, his hand resting on the door handle, to regain his composure. Getting his heart rate down into the normal range—a range it hadn’t visited during the last hour—wasn’t optional.

The woman flustered him, and he wasn’t sure whether he hungered for it or abhorred it.

She threatened his self-control like no one had before. Ever.

And she was as sexy as she was impulsive. Impulsiveness was, at best, difficult to predict. At worst? It was dangerous. And without being able to predict her actions and reactions, he was flying blind.

If the conversation with her had proven anything, it was that he didn’t have a solid grip on his reactions to her. For God’s sake, he’d smiled! Impulsively. He’d let himself relax in her company. She was a veritable stranger despite the forty-five minutes they’d spent together. And when he’d tried to withdraw, she’d followed him, leaning across the table and using that seductive voice of hers like a siren. Her offer of one night of unmitigated, irresponsible, unparalleled pleasure had scrambled his brain.

“Poker,” he said softly and shook his head, the urge to grin striking him again without warning.

This time, Isaac managed to quell it, his ironclad emotional control slipping back into place. He could do this. He could play a game of poker with her, enjoy their time together no matter how they spent it and then issue a kind but definitive farewell come morning. That was absolutely within his emotional wheelhouse.

Impulsive or not, Isaac wanted—needed—to see where this might go. Rachel’s spontaneity was a challenge. She kept him on his toes, forced him to engage in the conversation and be wholly present.

It was an odd thing to be that present in a personal conversation. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had.

The door opened and his driver stood, twisting to face Isaac. “Sir? The woman in the back seat...” He hesitated, fidgeting with his tie.

“Yes?”

“She asked me to relay a message.”

“Then relay it.”

“I don’t want to lose my job.”

Isaac’s mouth twitched, though whether he hovered on the border of irritation or humor he couldn’t say. “Just tell me what she said. Verbatim,” he added.

“She said to tell you to either get your ass in the car or take her home where she could play solitaire.”

Laughter nearly choked him, and he couldn’t stop it from breaking free, a sharp sound that was entirely unfamiliar. Realizing his driver’s eyes were nearly bugging out at the fact Isaac was laughing, he tamped down the outburst, cleared his throat and said, “I’m getting in. Run the divider up, pull into traffic and drive.”

“Destination, sir?”

“I’ll let you know.” The man moved to reenter the driver’s seat, but Isaac stopped him. “Oh, and David?”

“Sir?”

“As far as anyone—anyone else is concerned, I left the bar alone. I don’t care if it’s family, friend, coworker or corporate rival, you didn’t see me with anyone tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Letting himself into the car, he settled into the plush leather seats and breathed a short sigh. There was familiarity, even comfort, in the known, and this car was known. It was his. Something he had arranged so that each and every component suited his preferences.

As directed, the driver raised the partition between the front and back of the car before pulling away from the curb.

Rachel glanced out the window. “I assume we’re going to get cards.”

“If you prefer.”

She looked at him, expression open, not an ounce of pretension or any sign of an agenda visible. “Where would you normally go to get cards?”

“Wherever you prefer.” Light from a smartphone screen lit up the interior, and Rachel started rapidly tapping on the screen. “No need to Google directions. Tell me where you want to go and David will get us there.”

“I’m not Googling directions. I’m texting my emergency contact to let her know where I am, where I’ll be and when I’ll be back.”

“Seeing as I’m with you and don’t know that information, maybe I should give you my cell and you could text me, too.”

She glanced at him then back to her screen, smiling. “Smart-ass.”

“Seriously, Rachel. Where to? David can drive the city for hours, but a destination would be nice.”

Fingers pausing over the screen, she worried her lower lip with her teeth.

Isaac leaned forward and hit the intercom button. “The boat, please, David.”

“Boat?”

“It’s as good a place as any for me to school you in seven-card stud.”

She laughed, that true laugh of hers that was low and sultry and a type of foreplay all its own. “Where’s the boat?”

“On the harbor.”

“That’s a given, Isaac. I need the name.”

“The Marina.”

Her tapping resumed, but she paused to read a response and then shot him a sharp look. “The Marina?”

“The one and only.”

“Are we going to the clubhouse or do you have a boat?”

“Boat.”

“Slip number?”

He relayed the number and added, from memory, the manager’s name and number as well as his driver’s name and number, watching as she sent all the information to this mysterious emergency contact.

Rachel continued to clutch her phone even when she’d finished typing. She was clearly a good deal more nervous than he’d believed.

Sighing, he reached over and touched her forearm lightly before withdrawing. “Would you prefer I take you home?”

“No.” But she didn’t look at him.

Doubt began to weasel in, its insidious voice filling his mind with all the things that could go wrong, until he finally asked, “What are we doing here, Rachel?”

She swiveled around to face him, then. “My friend made me aware of who you are, Mr. Miller.”

“Isaac, please. And just what did she tell you?”

“That you’re the CEO of Quantum Ventures. That you’re—you’re...” She looked away, worrying her bottom lip.

His breath faltered, an unwilling captive trapped in his chest. He waited. Then he waited some more. When she didn’t continue, wouldn’t look at him, he forced himself to control his breathing. Every inhale and exhale felt forced. Possible attributes this stranger had saddled him with raced through his mind, each one hitting him with surprising, almost crippling force. Admittedly, his own imagination was likely far crueler than the simple truth. Without making a conscious decision, Isaac suddenly found himself filling in the possible blanks out loud, though in a low voice.

“I assume, based on your reaction, that your friend decried me as evil. Or am I perhaps corrupt? Has she found my name on some government watch list? Did she tell you I’m cold? Callous?” All truths—things he’d been called or labels that had been attributed to him at one time or another—that he didn’t want her to have heard. Surprised at his outburst, the shock of it caught him just below the diaphragm and made him suck in a short, sharp breath. Forcing himself to slow down, to regain control of himself and his runaway mouth, he offered a more lighthearted response. “I can confirm for you I’m neither evil nor corrupt, but the watch-list thing? Odds are pretty good she’s right.”

“Cold and callous?” she asked, her voice oddly soft.

“Depends on where you sit on any given issue, but yes. I’ve been called both. I even earned it once. Maybe twice. Okay, fine. Three times. But that’s all I’m copping to.”

“Fair enough.” She sighed and made a show of tucking her phone back into her clutch. “In the interest of full disclosure, you should know I’ve been called psychotic, a ball-busting bitch, heinous, criminally motivated, a ladder-climbing whore and a few other things that make me a potentially unsavory individual to be seen with.”

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