Seducing The Matchmaker: One Man Rush / Taking Him Down / The Personal Touch

“Marissa.” Stacy peered around and then leaned close to speak more softly. “I really need this date. My dad is putting on the pressure about settling down.”

The idea bugged Marissa since Stacy didn’t need to settle down at twenty-four. More likely, her father simply wanted to make the business connection with Kyle Murphy of Murphy family fame. The Murphys owned a global resort chain, a fact that might bring lucrative business toward Goodwell, who owned arenas worldwide.

“Which is why we should focus some of our search on men who are at a point in their lives where they’re really interested in a commitment—”

“My dad thinks the world of Kyle Murphy,” Stacy reminded her, those blue eyes tracking around the room as if she could find her dream date if she searched long enough. “Kyle has talked to my father about sponsoring a youth hockey camp for underprivileged kids and Dad thinks it’s great. Plus, despite my protests, he’s already hired a few other matchmakers to make sure I have a chance with Kyle.”

Marissa reeled. Honestly, she was fortunate she hadn’t worn heels or she might have toppled over at that bit of news. The revelation applied so much pressure on her, she felt lightheaded.

“You’re kidding.” Sure, she admired the idea of starting a youth hockey camp. But for Stacy’s father to go after Kyle with such a heavy hand?

Stacy shrugged. “I wish I was, because I’d rather work with you, and I wanted dating to be one area of my life that I kept my father out of. But once my dad gets an idea in his head …” She shuddered. “It’s next to impossible to talk him out of it. At least, I’ve never had much luck in that department.”

Great. So the almighty Phil Goodwell called all the shots for his daughter’s romantic future. However, by creating unhealthy competition and putting the focus on a specific end result rather than on the journey to true love, he wouldn’t be doing her any favors. Did the man have any idea at all how matchmaking worked?

Marissa was in the business to help people find soul mates and to bring lasting happiness, not to arrange specific introductions dictated by heavy-handed coercion.

“I’m not going to second-guess your father’s approach, but this is an unorthodox way to work.” Read: completely ludicrous. “Remember that you want to find a relationship that will make you happy, and ultimately it’s your decision.”

Stacy’s smile slipped for a moment and Marissa wondered if she’d gotten through to her. What daughter wouldn’t balk at the idea of her father buying off her dates?

“But I think Kyle is great, too.” Stacy pounded the table for emphasis, knocking over a glass of melting ice someone had left behind. “Sorry!”

Marissa edged her knees aside so the cold water could drip off the edge of the table unimpeded.

“Excuse me.” A young man approached the table, his eyes lingering on Stacy’s cleavage while a series of diamond studs winked above one eyebrow. “Would you like to dance?”

Stacy brightened, the spilled drink forgotten. “I’d love to.” Then, sobering, she turned back to Marissa. “Is that okay?”

They were three years apart in age, but to Marissa it felt more like twenty-three. How had she become such a wise old sage before she’d turned thirty? Even before her mother’s accident, she’d been a serious person. Now she divided her time between care-giving and negotiating dates for women who actually had lives.

But then, it was easier to orchestrate love from the sidelines than to navigate that rocky terrain for yourself. Sometimes Marissa wondered if that was half the reason she’d gotten into this business in the first place. Sure, she made other people happy. But standing in the wings also meant never risking a broken heart.

“Of course. But after that, I hope you’ll consider going home.” She lowered her voice and whispered in Stacy’s ear. “Alone.”

Rolling her eyes, Stacy trotted away with Diamond Brow, clinging to his arm so she didn’t fall off her stiletto heels.

Marissa lifted her glasses and tucked them on top of her head so she could pinch the bridge of her nose. The tension had moved from her left eye to center between them. When she’d gotten into matchmaking, it had been about the fun of bringing two people together who really belonged with each other. Back then, she’d seen the job as a fun side interest to her main job of overseeing her mother’s career. Brandy Collins, before her car accident, hadn’t been all that different from Stacy Goodwell—charming and completely impractical. And she fired managers as easily as she agreed to random gigs without ever checking her schedule.

After Marissa finished college, it had seemed a natural fit to help her mother manage her career, especially after a financial advisor had absconded with a sizable portion of her mom’s fortune. Someone needed to make sure no crackpots has access to her mother. But matchmaking had been one arena that was hers alone, and she’d really enjoyed it. Eventually, she’d started a private, personalized matchmaking service catering to an elite client base—wealthy singles who either didn’t have enough time to meet new people or who had trouble meeting the right people. But Marissa had a knack for bringing couples together. Her theory was that seeing a good match required objectivity. But who could be objective when you were wildly attracted to someone?

Anyhow, she loved the job. She’d just never anticipated a day when it would become a high pressure, door-die proposition. Like now. What would she do if one of the competing matchmakers swooped in and wooed away the Goodwell business? The depleted Collins’ coffers couldn’t afford the hit.

“You really look like you could use that drink.” The male voice emanated from just above her right ear.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was. Her whole body hummed in recognition, reminding her of the second biggest problem of the night.

Despite the fact that she needed to win over Kyle for Stacy, Marissa wanted him for herself.

She opened her eyes to find the man of the hour standing mere inches away, a tumbler in hand. He held the amber liquid out to her, the ice cubes clinking.

Deep green eyes regarded her left hand for a moment before they darted north to meet her gaze.

Left hand?

She looked at the place his stare had vacated and spied her fake wedding band. Her thumb went automatically to the thin gold, smoothing it absently.

“I’m not hitting on you,” he assured her, seeming to catch the gesture. “If anything, I wanted to apologize for asking you to have a drink with me before. I didn’t realize you were, ah—married.”

Marissa recalled the way he’d shuffled her aside so abruptly. She’d been so caught off guard by her attraction earlier that she hadn’t even fully processed what had happened during that encounter. And while it would be really convenient to hide behind that wedding band, she felt strange overtly lying to him when his expression seemed so sincere.

“I’m not, actually.” She reached to accept the drink.

He yanked it away.

“Hey, I’m trying to do the right thing by you, okay?” His brows plunged together at an ominous slant. “I don’t touch married women.”

His protest only charmed her more.

“That’s admirable.” She rose to her feet, hoping to clear the air with him so they could get down to business. “I wouldn’t expect you to touch me either way, Mr. Murphy. Do you have a moment to speak somewhere privately? I only need a moment of your time.”

The sharp angle to those eyebrows lifted. Arched. He seemed to consider stepping outside with her. Then his frown became more marked. He slammed her drink on the table she’d just vacated.

“Absolutely not. I’m flattered, but I take wedding vows seriously, and so should you.” He folded his arms and made like an immovable wall, possibly to show her that she had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting him to go anywhere with her.

Absurdly, her wayward gaze fell to the pronounced line of strong biceps and square shoulders, his body a gorgeous testament to the results of hard work. And she’d bet her open ogling would not help her cause. Where the heck was her usual reserve?

The last person she’d ever get involved with romantically was someone in the public eye. She’d taken a backseat to her mother’s career forever. She knew better than to put herself in that same position with a man.

“That’s fine.” She spied a handful of guests headed their way, giveaway hats and Sharpie markers in hand. “But I really would like to just speak with you. No touching. Do you think we could step into the hall for a minute?”

His eyes darted to the oncoming group. It was clear they hadn’t identified him yet, but his size had drawn their attention and they craned their necks for a better view.

“This way.” He tucked her under his arm, surprising her with his sudden proximity. “We can sit out on the terrace.”

One hand gripping her shoulder, he steered her through the crowd, using his body to clear a path. The warmth of his fingers drifted through the silk of her evening wrap, soaking into her skin and making her feel … too many things to count. Secure. Aroused. Vibrantly alive.

Dragging in a deep breath as her feet stepped faster to keep up, Marissa inhaled the scent of him—she detected a slight hint of spicy aftershave, the starch in his tuxedo shirt and the undiluted masculine musk of the skin beneath.

The ballroom trappings disappeared, the light brightening and then darkening again as he pushed open a door to the outside. Cold spring air rushed over her skin and she welcomed the way it cleared her head even as goose bumps covered her arms.

An unused terrace ringed with a low stucco wall held outdoor couches and chairs. A few cast-iron sconces on the walls illuminated the space, but they seemed to flicker at half power.

“Here.” He gestured toward a moss-colored love seat. “Will you be warm enough?”

He pulled his arm away now that they’d ditched the crowds. And no matter that it was wrong of her to notice, she felt a sharp pang of loss at the disappearance of his touch.

She couldn’t remember ever feeling an attraction this tangible, let alone this ill-advised. Dropping into a cushioned chair, she planned to make sure they didn’t touch again. She’d learned the hard way that a lack of objectivity with men could have devastating consequences. If her mom’s relationships hadn’t proven it—Marissa had never even met her birth father, a European tenor who’d fled the scene after a torrid affair with her mom—then her own experience should have sealed the deal. The one time she’d fallen head over heels, she’d been taken for a ride by a guy who’d only wanted to cash in on her mother’s music industry connections.