Chapter 4 #2
Overhead lights showcased the paintings in the room, which were all as amazing as the ones in the front room.
Gareth Tate painted landscapes, flowers, and ocean views, but most incredible were his portraits.
They were all a little off—nothing grotesque, but a cheekbone pulled out a little too far, eyes reaching a little too high on the forehead.
And those anomalies were what made the paintings so fascinating.
Sometimes Michaela couldn’t at first see what was out of place, only that something wasn’t quite right.
She wondered if he’d picked out the models’ most perfect feature and altered that.
The Harrington clan—she recognized them from the photos she’d looked up online after meeting Troy—clustered around partitions set up in the middle of the room, paintings hanging centered in each one.
Clay Harrington groused, “Is that really me?”
A beautiful redhead, very tall in her spiked high heels, said, “For God’s sake, Clay, of course that’s you. I’d know that cocky smile.”
Clay snapped back, “I don’t smile like that. That’s some weird manic grin.”
The redhead—Michaela recognized her as Troy’s older sister Ava—raised her hands in the air. Which said it all.
Another tall, dark-haired man, so like Troy that they could be twins, slung his arm around Clay’s shoulders. This was Dane, the eldest of the clan. “Gareth definitely paints ’em like he sees ’em.”
His hand on Michaela’s arm as if he couldn’t let her go, Troy muscled his way through to see the painting. Then he laughed. “Oh my God, bro, that is so you. It’s not the Joker’s smile, it’s your smirk.”
Clay grumbled under his breath.
But the painting looked exactly like him—like all the Harrington men—except for that mouth. The smirk was a bit Joker-like.
It was obvious that Gareth Tate saw Clay Harrington as a joker. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
When Troy broke into the laughter, saying, “Hey, everyone, I’d like you to meet Michaela Killian,” suddenly she was the one being spotlighted.
He went around the group, introducing everyone.
She’d already met Clay and Saskia. Ava stood with Ransom Yates, whose proprietary hand clasped hers.
A little older, probably mid-forties, he was as devilishly attractive as the Harringtons and the Mavericks.
The gossip magazines had caught the celebrity chef together with Ava more often than not in the last few months.
Dane shook her hand, then introduced the beautiful woman next to him. “Cammie Chandler.” He slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against him. While Ava’s red hair was deep and eye-grabbing, Cammie’s was a lovely rose gold.
Dane said with a smile, “Cammie is my right-hand everything.” By the glitter in his eyes, Michaela knew he meant everything .
Nope, these Harringtons didn’t need her help at all.
Except the only single woman in the group. Michaela held out her hand. “You must be Gabby. I’ve heard so much about you.” Troy shot her a look, which she ignored.
“Nice to meet you.” Gabby gave her a firm handshake.
Gabby—Michaela was sure Fernsby would call her Gabrielle—personified the term gorgeous blonde . She was shorter than her sister, and her smile was like a sunbeam. Michaela wondered if that would be how Gareth Tate painted her, with sunbeams flashing out of her mouth.
Fernsby returned, carrying a large tray with an assortment of small bites that he handed around the group.
Stopping by Gabby, he drawled in his imperious tone, which Michaela was beginning to realize was his only tone, “I searched high and low for something plant-based.” The phrase came out almost as if it had a nasty stink to it.
“These three items are for you, my dear Gabrielle.”
Michaela wanted to punch the air because she’d gotten the woman’s full name right.
Gabby’s laugh was as pretty as wind chimes. As she placed each offering on the cocktail napkin Fernsby handed her, she said, “You’re such a dear, Fernsby.” She eyed him with a set of amazingly beautiful blues. “Did you drizzle butter on any of them to spite me?”
Fernsby didn’t even crack a smile. Michaela wondered if he could smile. But he said in his wonderfully cultured British voice, “That would be a blow too low even for me.”
One of the men, Michaela couldn’t be sure which, muttered, “I’m not so sure about that.”
When Michaela felt the chitchat had gone on long enough, she lightly touched Gabby’s elbow while flashing a do-not-disturb look at Troy. “Gabby, I wonder if you and I could talk privately for a moment.”
Gabby eyed her, then Troy, and her cornflower-blue eyes darkened to something closer to indigo. She was already suspicious.
But she politely agreed. “Sure.”
As Michaela led Gabby away from the main body of Harringtons, Troy started to follow. She shot him another look and mouthed, This is private .
He stopped in his tracks, but he didn’t turn his back on them.
In the corner, she came to a stop by a painting of flowers in a vase containing gorgeous blooms, except for one in the back that was drooping and near dead—Gareth Tate really did have a sense of humor. Or maybe all his paintings needed to show the duality of his subjects. And maybe his own.
Before Michaela could even explain why she’d pulled her aside, Gabby said, “I know who you are. I’ve seen you in the tabloids. You’re the billionaire matchmaker.”
Michaela had sometimes appeared in photos, mostly standing in the back behind a couple she’d matched. “Yes, I am,” Michaela admitted freely. “Which is why I’m here.” She glanced at Troy over her shoulder. “Your brother wants to hire me to matchmake for you.”
The devil himself seemed to blaze out of Gabby’s eyes. “I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Him.” Every word had a period after it.
Michaela couldn’t help smiling. “I take it that’s a no.”
Gabby growled. “That’s a hell no.” Then a wicked glint appeared in her eye. “Can I hire you to matchmake for him?”
She wanted to laugh. Wouldn’t it be lovely to turn the tables on Troy Harrington? “Absolutely.”
Gabby punched the air. “He won’t know what hit him.” Then she gazed at Michaela for a long moment. “I guess that means you know about the bet?” she said in a whisper, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear.
Michaela nodded. “I know that’s why he hired me. And that’s why you want to hire me to turn the tables on him.”
Gabby’s laughter burst out again. “I’m going to win.”
“I have only one stipulation,” Michaela said, noting the turndown of Gabby’s smile. “I can only matchmake for Troy if I also matchmake for you.”
Gabby shook her head, her beautiful strawberry-blond hair flying. “No way. I’m not doing that.”
“If I match him, it’s only fair that I match you. After all, Troy came to me first. I can’t let you hire me if I won’t let him hire me too.” She stared Gabby down, neither of them blinking for a long moment, until Michaela said, “It’s all or nothing.”
Gabby gave a little stamp of her foot, showing herself to be the youngest child in the Harrington clan. Then, with a huff, she said, “All right. But I’m not going out with just anyone. He’s got to be perfect.”
Michaela’s smile grew. “I know what you’re thinking—that I’ll never find the perfect man. But you’ll be surprised.” That was her job, finding the perfect match.
And she would do it for his sister and for Troy.