Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (2 page)

“Of course you want to get married, Andrea. You just have to find the right person. And Dillon simply isn’t the right one.”

“And I suppose you have someone in mind? Someone you’d like to fix me up with?” It was an old bone of contention. Althea was constantly trying to set me up with what she considered the perfect suitor.

Althea opened her mouth to respond, but Vanessa—God bless her—was faster. “Isn’t that Bethany Parks over there? With Michael Stone,” she inserted, neatly turning the conversation away from more dangerous ground. “I didn’t know they were dating.”

“This is the first,” I said.

Bethany and I have been friends since our NYU days. We’d even roomed together for a while. Which is a huge undertaking, since she owns enough couture to open a Madison Avenue boutique. She needs one closet just for her shoes. Believe me when I say that Bethany lives by the adage “dress for success.”

She’s the kind of woman who takes the idea of Meals on Heels literally, delivering food to the apartment-bound elderly decked in her favorite Jimmy Choos. The idea of her tottering up five flights of stairs with a stack of Styrofoam containers would be laughable except for the humbling fact that she is also the kind of person who always puts others first.

Her date with Michael had come as a surprise, since she wasn’t usually interested in trust-fund types. Not that there’s anything wrong with Michael. He’s just a bit stuffy for my taste. And, I’d thought, for Bethany’s.

“Actually,” Althea said, shooting me a triumphant glance, “I introduced them.” So much for Vanessa’s diversion.

“You set up my best friend?” I sputtered, trying to hang on to some semblance of composure. To say that I disapprove of Althea’s meddling profession would be an understatement. Marriage— and love, for that matter—is not something that can be manipulated by facts and figures. It’s a basic principle of science that like does not attract like. And making matches based on financial benefits and social commonalities is like throwing mud in the face of thousands of years of romantic tradition.

Not that I’m a romantic. Exactly. I just don’t believe that people need intervention to find a relationship.

And I sure as hell didn’t want Althea meddling in my friends’ lives. Her manipulations had already cost me my mother. And I was still dealing with the fallout.

“I thought we had an agreement,” I said, draining the last of my champagne.

“We had nothing of the sort. Besides, they’re perfect for each other. And Bethany was just lamenting the fact that she wasn’t meeting the right kinds of men.”

“So you stepped in and made a match?” I swallowed, trying not to choke on my indignation.

“Not officially. I mean, Michael isn’t a client. He’s more of a friend. And I knew he was looking for the right someone, and Bethany’s perfect. So I introduced them.”

“It’s still a setup. And when it goes south, I’ll have to pick up the pieces.”

“Who’s to say it won’t work out?” Vanessa asked. “I mean, Althea does know what she’s doing. Michael’s a good man.”

“Spoken like a true matchmaker.” I shrugged. “And I’m not saying Michael isn’t good enough for Bethany. I don’t even know him, really, except by reputation.”

“Well, his background is impeccable,” Althea assured me.

“That’s just the point. Bethany’s not going out with his background. She’s going out with him. And wouldn’t it have been better if they could have found each other on their own?” I sighed, realizing the futility of my words almost before I got them out. “Never mind. Stupid question, considering present company.”

“Of course it’s not stupid,” Vanessa soothed. “It would be nice if the right people could find each other. But the truth is that it usually doesn’t happen that way. And so we’re here to help.”

I sucked in a breath, and grabbed another glass of champagne. Vanessa was a good person, and I really wasn’t trying to insult her. I just didn’t believe in matchmaking. Particularly when it involved Althea and my friends.

“I just wish you’d keep your nose out of my life, Althea.”

“But it isn’t your life, Andrea. It’s Bethany’s.”

“She’s my friend. And you’re my aunt. Which means her love life should have been off-limits.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Besides, it’s not like I forced it on her,” Althea said.

“She came to you?” I asked, surprised. Bethany knew my feelings about Althea’s profession, and I’d thought she shared them.

“Not exactly,” Althea said, not looking the slightest bit repentant. “I called her. But it didn’t take much convincing.”

“So you reached out to her, even though you knew how I felt?”

“Like I said, it wasn’t about you.”

“No. It never is, is it?” I sucked down more champagne and, with a tight smile, excused myself. I knew better than to get into it with Althea. There was no winning. I should never have engaged in the first place. But setting Bethany up crossed a line. An arbitrary one, to be sure. But still a boundary.

Not that Althea would recognize one of those if it hit her in the face.

Anyway, there you have it. My wonderful dysfunctional life.

But it is what it is. And except for Bethany’s seeming defection, I wasn’t going to let it get to me. I have my own life separate from Althea, and honestly our worlds only intersect at the odd social event. Okay, more than that, but the point is that I had broken free of all that Althea stands for years ago, and one little go-round was not going to set me back.

I stopped to exchange pleasantries with a couple of old friends, and to sign an autograph for a fan (which was somewhat surprising since the ladies who lunch hardly know where their ovens are, let alone how to tune in the Gourmet Channel). Still, the woman’s gushing praise went a long way toward raising my spirits. And what that didn’t accomplish, the rest of my champagne did.

I accepted a refill from a passing waiter and ignored the urge to confront Bethany with her betrayal. Best to let it wait until tomorrow. Besides, she really did look like she was having a fabulous time, and it’s not as if I didn’t want her to be happy. So instead, I went to congratulate the star of the evening, who was looking a bit dumbstruck by it all.

“It’s a fabulous turnout,” I said, waving at the glittering crowd. “And it looks like sales are brisk.”

“I have no idea if they’re buying because they actually like my work or if it’s just fear of Anna Carlson,” Stephen laughed. “But I’ll take it either way. And the gallery has asked if I can extend the show.”

“Well, I’d say that’s an indication that the success is all yours. I mean, what’s not to love?” And I meant it. Stephen’s work speaks to me.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to sell
Frenetic on Fifth
?” Cybil asked, turning from another conversation to join us. “I’ve had at least four offers for it.”

“Not a chance. I love that painting.”

Stephen had once offered me a painting and I’d chosen
Frenetic on Fifth
. And, because I think it’s one of his best, I’d agreed to let him have it back for the show—strictly on loan. Which I suppose, in a weird kind of way, makes me an original patroness of the soon-to-be famous Stephen Hobbs. (Okay, maybe patroness is stretching it a bit too far. But I was definitely an early fan.)

“Never hurts to ask,” Cybil continued. “I suspect you could get six figures.”

“Well, kudos to Stephen. But no dice.” I snagged another canapé. This one brioche topped with goat cheese and what appeared to be a bit of sun-dried tomato, although it better resembled damp cardboard. Fresh ingredients are the key to any good dish. And cutting corners is inexcusable. Especially when playing at this level.

“Don’t say anything to Anna,” Cybil said, eyeing the napkin where I’d discreetly folded the food. “She’s used the same caterer for years, and Vanessa says she won’t consider anyone else.”

“I’d never say anything,” I protested. “Besides, it’s not bad. Just a bit pedestrian. And I’m overly critical anyway.”

“You’re an expert,” Stephen said, loyally. “And actually, I agree.”

“Me, too,” Cybil laughed, “but we’ll keep it on the QT.”

“Hey, beautiful.” Two arms encircled my waist as the words tickled my ears. “I’d wondered where you’d gotten to.”

As more people stepped in to congratulate Stephen, I turned to smile up at Dillon. “Just mingling. How about you? Had enough of this party?”

“Hey, I’d had enough before I even got here.”

“You should have been drinking champagne.” I held up my half-empty glass as proof. “It has a way of making everything look rosy.”

“Even Althea?” he queried. “I saw you talking with her and Vanessa.”

“Couldn’t be helped. She’s hard to avoid. And besides, she wanted to gloat. Seems Bethany’s gone over to the dark side.”

“Dating Michael Stone, you mean? I always thought he was a bit too pompous for my taste.”

“Well, you think anyone who lives above Fifty-first is pompous.

“True. But you agree with me.”

“For the most part.” I reached up to brush a wayward curl out of his eye. Dillon has the most glorious hair. The kind that God really should have given to a woman. But for some reason it never happens that way. Like eyelashes. Have you ever noticed that guys often have the most amazing eyelashes? It really isn’t fair. “Anyway,” I continued. “The relevant point here is that Althea set Bethany up.”

“With Michael?” Dillon frowned. “I suppose it makes sense. But I thought your friends were off-limits.”

“Apparently, the rules have changed. Only no one bothered to tell me.”

“Well, there’s no way it’ll last.”

“Exactly what I said. Anyway, what’s done is done.”

“Sounds like you’re taking it all rather well.”

“I wasn’t. But as I said, I’ve had a few of these to dull my indignation.” I shook my glass again for emphasis. “Besides, Bethany is a big girl. And if she wants Althea to set her up, I suppose it’s not really any of my business. It certainly beats the hell out of Althea trying to set me up.”

“I know she doesn’t like me,” Dillon said, still frowning. “But I really don’t like her trolling for a replacement.”

“She hasn’t tried anything in ages. Although I’m sure she would if she could. You should have heard what she was saying about you.”

“Anything I should be worrying about?” His expression was teasing, but there was something in his voice that gave me a moment’s pause.

“Is there reason to worry?” I purposely kept my voice light, but my heart had stuttered to a stop.

“Of course not.” He brushed a kiss across my forehead, but I wasn’t convinced. “So what did the old battle-ax have to say?”

“Just that you were spending an unusual amount of time flirting with Diana Merreck.” I laughed, but the resulting sound wasn’t all that cheerful—I suppose, in part, because of all the people Dillon could have chosen to flirt with, Diana was the absolute worst. She stands for everything I hate about Manhattan society—a social predator who ranks her friends according to their breeding. She lives to judge others, and believe me, most are found wanting. To say she’s a piece of work is an understatement, and the idea of Dillon spending time with her quite frankly made me sick to my stomach.

“I always flirt,” Dillon said, finishing off his champagne. “You know that.”

“That’s what I told Althea, actually. But she implied she’d seen you together on more than one occasion.” The last bit just sort of slipped out on its own, sounding much more accusatory than I’d intended.

“Really.” There was definitely an underlying note in his voice. Not panic, exactly, but something very closely kin to it.

“Dillon, what is it?”

“Nothing,” he said with what I considered a forced smile.

“Oh, come on,” I said, stomach churning, “you don’t even like champagne and you just drained your glass.”

“There’s nothing, I swear. You’re just letting Althea get to you.”

“No. I’m not.” I shook my head, my heart threatening to leap right through my dress. “I know you too well. Something’s up. So spill it.”

“I don’t think now is the right time. Why don’t we head home and—,” he started, but I was too wound up to let it go.

“Dillon. Whatever it is, just say it.”

“I . . . ,” he started, and then stopped. For a moment he just stared at his feet, then with a sigh he lifted his head, the look of regret on his face making my stomach do three-sixties. “Look, I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

“Find out what?” I snapped, working hard to keep my tone civil. It’s just that I had the sudden impression that my carefully ordered life was about to spiral completely out of control.

His hands slid to my arms, palms massaging small circles as if somehow his touching me was going to make everything okay. And quite frankly, five minutes ago I’d have agreed with the idea. But that was then, and . . .

“I have been seeing Diana,” he said finally.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms as I struggled to comprehend the finality of those five little words. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. This was Dillon we were talking about.

My Dillon.

We might not have exchanged rings, but we were definitely committed. This was the man who knew me better than anyone. My lover, my friend. The person I trusted most in all the world. I’d shared things with Dillon I’d never told anyone. Not even Bethany. We laughed at the same jokes, loved the same movies, shared a passion for Manhattan and for each other. Or at least that’s what I’d believed until two minutes ago.

“It wasn’t like I planned it, Andi,” Dillon was saying, his words shredding what was left of my heart. “I mean, initially, I was just trying to help. She’s throwing a party for a friend and she wants to have it at The Plumm. I have an in there, and so she asked if I could arrange things.”

I sucked in a breath, fighting tears as I swallowed the retort forming in my head. I needed to take the high road. I needed to hang on to some semblance of normalcy.

“So anyway.” He shifted uncomfortably, his hands dropping to his sides. “One thing led to another . . .”

“And you were having a private party for two?” Okay, so maybe I’m not so good at high roading. But it beat the alternative— completely and utterly falling apart.