Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (7 page)

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what Bob told me. If we want to win we need to find the perfect guest. Someone who’ll start a buzz from the moment we announce the show.”

“So we’re screwed.” Clinton wasn’t usually so much of a pessimist, but to be honest, he wasn’t all that much off the mark. “What do Missy and Ricardo have to do?”

“I’ve no idea,” Cassie said with a shrug. “And frankly, that’s not our problem. Finding a superchef is. Surely you all can think of someone. Between the two of you you know practically every chef in town.”

“That’s the problem,” Clinton sighed. “The reason we know them is because everyone does. At least the ones that are worth knowing about.”

“Except Philip DuBois,” I said, excitement cresting again. “He’s coming back to New York. Opening a new restaurant. Bernie told me. If we can get him on the show, it’ll be the coup of the year. It’ll mean not only regular Gourmet Channel viewers, but most of society and all the epicurean world. The man is an enigma.”

“Yes, but. . . ,” Clinton started, only to have Cassie motion him quiet.

“I think you’re on to something. The brass will love the idea. DuBois can cook with you and talk about his new endeavor. It’ll be fabulous publicity for him and should skyrocket our ratings.”

“But,” Clinton insisted, still playing the role of killjoy, “he never gives interviews.”

“It won’t be an interview,” Cassie gushed, still rolling on the momentum of the idea, her PR training kicking into high gear. “It’ll be more like a master class. Andi cooking with a legend. This is inspired.”

She was right. The whole idea was amazing—heady and seductive—me on prime time with Philip DuBois. This was it. My big break.

There was only one problem.

Clinton was right. DuBois never did interviews. Or anything else remotely connected with the media.

Which left only one alternative.

I’d simply have to change his mind.

Chapter 5

Saying I was going to convince Philip DuBois to come on my show and actually doing it were two completely separate things. And after the initial excitement of my pronouncement, I have to say I’d lost a little enthusiasm.

From my meeting with Cassie, I’d gone on to tape some teasers and do some prep work for the next show. Finally, finished, I’d fled the studio, hoping for a little R & R. Instead, I’d run into Bob Baker. He’d applauded my initiative and congratulated me on getting DuBois for the show.

Apparently, Cassie and her marketing mojo had taken my pie-in-the-sky idea and somehow morphed it into a confirmed reality, leaving Bob ebulliently counting the ratings and congratulating me on mission impossible.

Which meant, of course, that now nothing less than success would do.

To say I was panicked was a complete understatement. And so I’d retreated to the solace of Central Park. Well, actually, I’d gone to Althea’s. She’d have just hunted me down if I hadn’t. But I’d jumped at her suggestion of a walk in the park to clear my head, since the suggestion meant avoiding her constant hovering and endless questions. And truly, a leisurely stroll along tree-lined paths seemed just what the doctor ordered.

Of course, Manhattan is all about multitasking, so I’d brought Bentley along. Which meant, of course, that my stroll had turned into more of a brisk walk. The dog has never met a person, place, or thing he doesn’t love, and I mean with his entire little canine heart. So far he’d stalked a pigeon, chased a squirrel, damn near climbed a tree, and peed on pretty much every tree and lamppost in this part of the park. To say that Bentley was enthusiastic would be a definite understatement.

Finally, though, his energy spent, we’d settled on a bench on the far side of Conservatory Water, content for the moment just to watch the world go by. It was a beautiful day, tulips poking their heads out of the ground and little radio-controlled sailboats gliding over the water, sails fluttering in the breeze.

A woman with a voice like a foghorn and an umbrella held in the air summoned a group of tourists to huddle around the statue of Alice at the north end of the pond. Thanks to a guy with a clarinet directly across from her under the shadow of an elm, she was having a little trouble being heard. It was sort of like dueling instruments. The guide would raise her voice, and the musician (and I use that word loosely) would increase the volume of his wail, the resulting cacophony scattering tourists and nontourists alike.

My dog lifted his head as the guide’s voice reached chalk-on-blackboard levels, and clarinet guy, admitting defeat, gave me a grin and a shrug and headed off in the direction of the tunnel near Bethesda Fountain. The acoustics there are killer—better than Carnegie Hall, with a much less stringent dress code. Bentley gave a doggy sigh, and let his head drop back into my lap. The tour group lingered for a few more minutes and then the guide was off, umbrella bobbing through a sea of polyester and Nike-clad sixty-somethings as they made their way toward the Ramble.

I closed my eyes and let the sun-dappled warmth of the day envelop me, allowing, just for a moment, the idea that maybe everything would manage to turn out right. Diana Merreck’s investment in Mardi Gras would go down the tubes, Dillon would come back to me, proverbial tail between his legs, and Philip DuBois would jump at the opportunity to be on my show. In short, life would be perfect again.

Of course, I should have known better. Just entertaining the notion of everything turning out all right was enough to wave a red flag at fate, tempting it to step in and show me who was boss.

With an excited bark, Bentley suddenly leapt off the bench, startling me into dropping the leash. And before I had the chance to correct the matter, he was free and running hell-bent for leather down the pathway after an equally wing-footed squirrel.

I screamed his name, gaining a leer from a fellow sitting two benches down, and a stern look of disapproval from a nanny with her sleeping charge. Ignoring them both, I called again, but the distance was increasing, and Bentley showed no interest whatsoever in slowing down. He didn’t even pause to look behind him.

Sprinting—in flip-flops—I took off after him, alternating between cursing my dog and running through possible explanations I was going to have to create in order to break the news to Dillon that I had not only assumed ownership of his dog, but had managed to lose him as well. Completely oblivious to my turmoil, the canine in question disappeared around a bend without a backward glance, and for the first time I felt a tinge of panic. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to the little guy, at least not until I got hold of him and wrung his fuzzy little neck.

I took the corner, Jimmy Buffet lyrics ringing through my head. I’d never blown out a flip-flop but just at the moment it didn’t seem that far outside the realm of possibility.

No sign of my wayward dog.

I tried to call for him again, but thanks to the unintended wind sprint was capable only of an asthmatic whisper. A second bend appeared and I rounded it, thinking I was screwed, but no, there was Bentley—joyfully accosting a jogger, tongue lolling, tail wagging. (The dog, not the jogger.)

I skidded to a stop. “I’m so sorry, he got away and . . . ,” I stopped, my heart, which was already beating chaotically, moving into triple time as my brain registered exactly who it was that Bentley was accosting.

“I take it he belongs to you,” my stranger said with a crooked smile.

“Yeah,” I whispered, trying to make sense of this newest turn of events.

Okay, let’s just stop right here and say that walking in the park to clear my head is one thing. I mean, it’s just me and Bentley and a bunch of strangers. But running into the man who practically saved your life, wearing flip-flops, jeans, and a tatty T-shirt, is not the done thing. Especially when you add in the facts that I’d scrubbed off my makeup the minute we’d wrapped the show and that my hair, thanks to my recent wind sprint, probably resembled a Manhattan rat’s nest.

I pushed said hair out of my face and strove for a calm I definitely didn’t feel. “I’m afraid he got away from me.” I looked down at Bentley, who was still eyeing my stranger with something akin to adoration. “He saw a squirrel and pulled free before I had a chance to react.”

“Good thing I was here to head him off at the pass,” my stranger said, still smiling, his dark eyes taking in my disheveled appearance.

“Yeah, I’m not exactly dressed for running.” But he was. Sweats, T-shirt, hot, sweaty—did I mention hot? Why is it men look good covered in sweat? It isn’t fair. Really. It’s not. “Anyway, thanks for saving the day. Again.”

“Not a problem,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Just in the right place at the right time.”

“Small world,” I said with a wry grin.

“Well, it’s a little island.” He shrugged, reaching down to scoop Bentley up into his arms. My dog wiggled in doggy ecstasy as the man of the moment scratched him behind the ears.

“You left without saying good-bye.” The words just came out of their own accord. But then my mouth had always had a mind of its own.

“I thought maybe under the circumstances you’d rather be alone. Besides, your aunt had arrived, so I left you in good hands.”

“That’s questionable, actually. But I understand. And I really do appreciate your help. You seem to be making a habit of riding to my rescue.”

“Like I said, right place, right time,” he said, walking over to drop down on a bench, my moonstruck dog still snuggling in his arms. I followed with a sigh. It wasn’t like I had a choice. Really. He had my dog.

“So,” I said, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bench, still wishing an
Extreme Makeover
team would arrive with the precision of a NASCAR pit crew to comb, curl, clothe, and otherwise transform me into something a little more presentable, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

He frowned for a minute and then smiled. “Ethan McCay. I would have introduced myself last night, but you were kind of down for the count.”

“Not my finest moment.”

“So, who’s this?” he asked, tactfully steering to a less awkward subject.

“Bentley.” I smiled as said named dog stretched out on the bench between us, tail thumping like mad.

“As in the car?”

“Exactly,” I said, nodding my approval. “My grandfather owned two of them. Classics from the fifties. And when I was little I loved riding around in them. So I guess it’s a tribute to my grandfather. At least in part.”

“Well, it’s a great name for a dog.”

“You really think so? Dillon never liked it.”

“Dillon?”

“My ex,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “The one I broke up with last night. Bentley is really his dog. Well, at least technically. But it turns out Dillon’s not the nurturing type. At least when it comes to dogs. And since he spent more time at my apartment than his own, it just seemed simpler for Bentley to live with me. And now, under the circumstances, I figure—”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law?” Ethan finished for me.

“Something like that. I really haven’t had time to think it through. I just know that I’m not giving him up.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. And besides, I suspect Bentley’s better off with you.”

I waited for something more, but he went silent, and it stretched between us hovering somewhere between awkward and comfortable.

“I suppose we really should let you get back to your run,” I said, more out of polite necessity than any real desire to see him go.

“It’s all right,” he assured me. “I was almost finished anyway. And it’s nice to have company while I cool down.”

“So you live around here?” I asked, trying to picture what his apartment would look like.

“Yeah, a couple blocks down from the Met.” He nodded in the direction of Fifth Avenue. Or at least I assumed it was that direction. I’d sort of gotten turned around as I’d chased Bentley along the twisting paths.

“Wow. Nice address.” Actually, I abhorred it. But now wasn’t the time for a diatribe on Upper East Side living.

“I’m just staying there until I find a place of my own. I’ve only been back in the city a couple of weeks.”

“Really?” I asked, immediately curious. “So where’ve you been?”

“Bouncing around. My family owns several companies and I’ve been traveling between them managing our legal affairs.”

“You’re an attorney.” Upper East Side and a lawyer. Two for two—and I don’t mean that in a good way. Still, he had saved my life ... or very close to it.

“Yes. Corporate. But right now I’m just taking care of the family business. My dad had a heart attack, and I’ve been trying to help out ”

Okay, very decidedly un-Upper East Side. “So you said ‘back.’ I take it that means you’ve lived here before?”

“Yeah, I grew up in the city, and most of my family is still here or at least somewhere nearby. How about you?”

“Pretty much the same. Except that I never left. I grew up near Carl Schurz Park. With my aunt and my grandmother. Then, after a stint at NYU, I moved to SoHo.”

“That’s right, you said last night that your apartment was in the neighborhood. So isn’t Central Park a little bit far afield?"

"My aunt lives on Fifth. Nine twenty-seven. You know, the one with the hawks? Anyway, I stayed with her last night. The doctor seemed to think I needed supervision.”

“Probably a wise idea.” He nodded, his fingers ruffling Bentley’s fur. “You could have had a concussion. So how are you feeling?”

“Pretty good, considering. I’ve got bruises on my bruises, and a lot of stitches. But all in all, I’d say I’m on the mend. I even managed to tape my show this morning.”

“Your show?” he prompted.

“Yeah. I have a television show. On the Gourmet Channel.” I explained about What’s Cooking and my unexpected shot at prime time, as well as my overenthusiastic gaffe and the mess it had landed me in. I’m not usually a “spill your guts to strangers” kind of girl, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.

“So basically,” he said, still scratching Bentley behind his ears, “you’ve backed yourself into a corner. You’ve got to produce Philip DuBois or one of your competitors gets the slot.”