The Matchmaker Meets Her Match (8 page)

“No, thank you.” His voice had a trace of an accent, confirming the Hispanic heritage his dark good looks had indicated. He took a place at the table, giving the chair a dubious glance before sitting in it. Rilka took the chair across from him, glanced at it to see why it deserved such a dubious assessment, saw nothing, and also sat down. She knew he didn’t want to be here. She’d bet good money he wasn’t really interested in a match or even a date. Reston was the reason why he was here. So —

“So, tell me what’s going on,” she said.

He gazed at her with warm brown eyes, sincere yet calculating, an intriguing combination. Maybe she could bend the rule about not dating clients. “Reston is chairman of the board,” he said. “So I am obliged to treat his requests seriously.”

“Ah.” Rilka leaned back and smiled in commiseration. “And he thinks you need to settle down with a nice girl.”

“Something like that,” he said, a humorous expression flashing across his face.

“And you’re doing fine without anyone.”

“I am in line to succeed the current CEO of Electra Corp. Reston believes a nice wife and potential family will make me more palatable to the board. More
relatable
.” Which meant he was doing fine without anyone, but his career required a wife, or at least the appearance that he was looking for one. And if he found someone, she would need to accept his workaholism.

He didn’t want anyone and if he
did
have anyone, he wouldn’t have time for her. So that was going to work out great. Unhelpfully, Rilka’s brain took that moment to remember reading a study that showed top executives shared many traits with sociopaths.
Sure
, she thought.
Make my job easy
.

Without having to think too hard, Rilka could guess the board of Electra Corp. consisted of old white men who were racist enough to worry about an Hispanic man running things and his mentor Reston thought making him more
relatable
would tip the balance. The world never changed, it just learned to hide things better.

“So we’re … doing this for your image.”

“Precisely.”

“Hmm,” Rilka said. “Would you be receptive to finding a match? I mean, supposing I really do find the right woman for you.”
Ha.

“I have very little time to date,” Rafael said. “I’m not finding her on my own.”

“That a yes?”

“A qualified yes. I’m not delighted to be here but I have learned to make the best of a bad situation.”

If only I could learn,
Rilka thought with a sigh.

“Come now, surely I am not as hopeless as that? I am presentable, I have a good job, and excellent prospects.”

But who are you, under the job title and the grooming?
The facade had not gone up overnight and getting past it would take time and wanting to try. And probably a certain amount of luck.
The right woman
, Gran would have said, but Rilka wasn’t sure.

“It’s not hopeless at all,” she said cheerfully. Someday she would stop being able to fake the cheerfulness and then what? “You do understand that if I set you up with a date and you don’t show up because you’re busy working, I’ll know you’re not making a good-faith effort.”

He smiled. “And you’ll tell Reston? I assure you that if I agree to a date, I will keep it.” He hesitated. “Unless something unavoidable comes up.”

“Right,” Rilka said, and didn’t burst into noisy sobs or start howling like a wolf. She had excellent self-restraint.

“I really will try,” he said and gave her a beautiful smile.

“Let me think about some possibilities,” she said. “Are you looking for any particular qualities in a match?”

“First and foremost, someone who understands how important my work is to me.”

Rilka nodded. An enabler for workaholism. Well, she probably had a few suitable candidates in her files. Some women weren’t that picky — if he was employed, that was all they needed to know. But he almost certainly had his share of unspoken expectations. Well, they’d get to find out what those were. She sighed.

“If you’d leave me your contact information, I’ll be in touch soon,” Rilka said. She clipped the business card he handed her to the notecard she would soon fill out with his requirements:
Must enjoy being being second on the list of things he wants to do
.

Then they stood and she walked him out of the kitchen. When they reached the living room, Reston popped to his feet and said, “My turn!” Rafael nodded and took his place on the sofa. Rilka made a gesture and followed him in.

Older men with fat bank accounts weren’t that much harder to work with than younger men with fat bank accounts. Whenever she got disgusted with men, she remembered women. That didn’t alleviate her disgust, just broadened it. Ecumenical disgust. Everyone was awful.

That was depressing, so she reminded herself that there were plenty of good people in the world and if she had a few minutes she could probably think of one.

Reston dragged a chair out and sat at the table, grinning happily at her.

Rilka promised herself a decadent chocolate dessert for getting through the day. Something gooey, with nuts. And lots of it. She smiled back at Reston, who sat forward on the edge of the chair.

“So tell me how it’s going,” she said.
No, don’t.

“I knew your grandma.”

“So you said.”

“She was quite an adventuress, your grandma.” He gave a cherubic smile that told her way more than she wanted to know.

“Sure was.”

“She was in the Hungarian Resistance. Does anyone in your generation remember World War II?”

“I’ve heard of it,” she snapped. Reston himself was far too young to remember it personally.

His grin intensified and for a moment he reminded her of Jeremy. “She was quite a woman. You have a little of the look of her. Though I don’t think she was ever half as serious as you seem to be.”

“She enjoyed her work,” Rilka said without thinking. Reston let out a guffaw and said, “And you don’t? You’d rather sit at a desk adding up rows of columns or typing on a keyboard all day?”

What I’d like is to be an adventuress,
Rilka thought with a sudden stab of longing. Did they even make adventuresses these days? Or was it just icky Paris Hilton and her ilk, the kind of people no real woman would want to emulate?

“Surely there are other options,” she said.

“Could be, could be,” he said.

He wasn’t here to offer her career counseling. She reined herself in and said, “So, please, tell me why you’re here.”

“Ah, that’s easy. You know, your grandma set me up with my late wife, God rest her soul. Virginia was quite a woman. I don’t expect I’ll find another like her.”

That was sweet. “But you want to try?”

“Good heavens, no!” Reston said. “No, no, no. I’ll tell you what I want. I want a trophy wife.”

Rilka inhaled tea. Someday she was going to learn to stop drinking when clients were talking. When the fit of coughing passed and she was able to get her breath back, he said, “Took you by surprise, did I? But I’ve decided I’ve earned a nice bit of fluff to go on my arm. I’ll leave her a nice sum of money, I can guarantee that upfront. And I could feel affection for the right girl. I’m sure the right girl could feel affection for me.”

“I’m sure, too,” Rilka said sourly. “I have just the person in mind.” Natalia, a young blonde-from-a-bottle had visited her a few weeks ago, explaining she was looking for a sugar daddy. Rilka had sighed and said she’d see what she could do, though she hadn’t actually intended to do anything.

I hate my life,
Rilka thought.
I’ve got an old goat who wants a trophy wife and the truly depressing thing is I have a candidate on the books.

“You’ll have to take her someplace disgustingly expensive,” Rilka warned him. “Bring her a dozen roses. Pick her up in a limo.”

“I know how to do my part,” Reston said. “What’s her name?”

Anything you want it to be,
Rilka thought
, if the price is right.
“Natalia.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“She is not a nice girl.”

“That’s all right,” Reston said happily. “Saturday, eight
P.M.
, I’ll pick her up.”

“Sure. I’ll arrange it,” Rilka said.
Right after I take a shower to get the ick off
.

• • •

“Didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” Rilka said, opening the door. It was just Jeremy so she didn’t have to be on her best behavior, but she felt like she owed him an explanation. “I was just taking a shower.” It hadn’t washed away the stain of her sin, but it had relaxed her slightly. Maybe. Or maybe she needed another shower and some industrial strength de-grimer.

Jeremy nodded and rolled into the room. “Not a problem. Your neighbor’s dog ran off and I ended up chasing him down, so I was late anyway.”

“Mrs. Olsen’s dog? That ugly little peekapoo creature? Why she doesn’t keep him on a leash I don’t know. But it was nice of you to help.”

“I’m a nice guy.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Rilka said. “But I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Jeremy grinned at her. “I’m wounded. Don’t you feel the niceness radiating from me?” He batted his lashes soulfully.

“Uh-huh,” Rilka said, walking toward the kitchen. “My last appointment ran late, and then there was the shower, so I haven’t had lunch. Want a snack?”

“Of course I do. Chasing silly little dogs works up an appetite.”

“I was going to nuke some frozen pizza.”

“That sounds like my kind of cooking.”

“I used to cook,” Rilka said. “But now that it’s just me — ”

“The microwave seems easier,” Jeremy finished.

“Yeah.” Rilka busied herself with plates and the pizza box and microwave. She was aware of Jeremy watching her but he didn’t say anything. When the microwave dinged, she got the pizza out and served it at the table.

“So how’s it going?” she asked around a bite of pepperoni, and realized she wasn’t asking because she was his matchmaker, she was asking out of personal curiosity. So that was weird.

“Food first,” he said, reaching for a slice. “Story of my so-called life second.”

“Fair enough. I’m tired of talking anyway.”

“Difficult clients?”

“Could anyone be more difficult than you?” She grinned and added, “In fact, I think one was. He wants a trophy wife. The disgusting thing is I have just the right woman for him.”

“That sucks. You can’t just say ‘men are pigs,’” he said sympathetically.

“Well, you can,” Rilka allowed, “but then you have to stipulate that women are pigs, too.” She bit into the pizza again. Not bad for something heated in the microwave.

“So how’d you get into this business?” Jeremy asked. Apparently the story of her life was fair game even though they were eating. “Forgive my saying but it doesn’t seem like your kind of thing. So there must be a story.”

If she were Gran the adventuress there would be a story. Or even if she’d been a businessperson with a plan. She shrugged, swallowed, and said, “It’s not much of a story. I got laid off from my job — I was an analyst for a brokerage firm — and Gran had just died and left me the business or whatever the hell you’d call it.”

“Gran?”

“She was this Hungarian resistance fighter, or so the story goes, and escaped communist Hungary just in the nick of time. Took lovers until she was a very satisfied ninety-three-year-old and then died.”

“What about your parents?”

“I’ve never known my father. My mother is in Bangkok. Or at least she was. She’s a bit of a gypsy.”

“Trying to take after your grandmother?” Jeremy asked.

Rilka stopped, holding the next slice of pizza in midair. “Huh. I never really thought of that. But maybe she is trying to take after Gran. Gran the adventuress.”

“The way you say that. Let me guess. Are you feeling as if your life is lacking in adventure?”

“Yes,” she said vehemently and took a huge bite of her pizza.

“I went looking for adventure once,” he said.

Rilka swallowed her bite of pizza. It felt the size of a fist in her mouth.
Not just a job
, she thought, chasing the dry pizza down with a long swallow of Diet Coke.
An adventure
.

She didn’t know what to say.
I’m sorry
wasn’t it. She figured shutting up was probably an okay strategy.

After a long moment, he said, “Didn’t mean to stop the conversation like that.”

“I know,” Rilka said. “You’re just sayin’. Adventure: not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Exactly. Just sayin’.”

The silence was not as awful as it would have been with someone else. He didn’t seem to think she should say anything. He finished his pizza although she had sort of lost her appetite.

“You appear to be done with your lunch,” she said after a while, getting to her feet and holding out her hand for the empty plate. “Can we talk about your so-called life now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but though his tone was light his expression was serious.

“What happened?”

He shrugged, didn’t meet her eyes. “Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to be setting me up,” he said. “Then you tell me to go to bars and hit on women.”

“I’m pretty sure I said, ‘Get to know people.’”

“For the purpose of getting laid. That’s called hitting on women.”

She contemplated him. Hadn’t she known from the start he was going to be a pain in the ass?

“So you’ve been going to the bar and not hitting on women? Is that what ‘nothing’ means? Or are you getting shot down? Because I don’t mean to be rude but we almost certainly need to work on your technique.”

He didn’t flash her his trademark grin so that made her feel like an asshole. He was finding the placemat inordinately interesting.

She touched his hand with hers. “Hey, it’s just me. You can talk to me. God knows I haven’t gotten laid in … a long time. So I understand — ”

“I don’t think you do,” he said. “When was the last time you tried to find someone?”

Rilka drew back at the anger in his voice. “This isn’t about me,” she said.

“You brought yourself into it,” he pointed out. He was sounding less pissed and more exasperated, so that was better. Probably.