Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
T he only woman I want to date is you.
Had Troy really just said that?
Yes, he had, and it freaked her out. The man seemed to take up so much space, filling her office, stealing her breath. He felt so close, though he stood several feet away. He exuded animal magnetism. And her feet wanted to float right into that force field.
The worst? Michaela wanted to go on a date with him in the worst possible way. Make that the best possible way.
But, dear God, he was a billionaire. She’d never fit into his world.
She needed to be with a man like herself, someone who’d had to scrabble all his life.
Yes, Troy and his siblings had to work their way back from nothing after their parents’ deaths.
But was that the same as never having had anything to begin with?
Was it the same as watching her mother struggle to put food in the fridge?
Because that’s where all her matchmaking skills had come from.
As soon as she’d been old enough, she’d struggled just as hard to help her mother.
Could a man like Troy Harrington ever truly understand her world? And could she ever truly be a part of his?
Look at how blithely he’d asked her to find him a massive yacht.
She would be a fish out of water in his world, no matter how nice and even admirable he seemed.
No matter how tempting he was. No matter how badly she wanted to throw herself at him.
Sooner or later, his family would figure out she didn’t fit in. The Mavericks would too.
Besides, he was probably playing with her to win the bet.
And she wasn’t a woman to be played with.
Hands still jammed on her hips, she ground out, “I’m never going to date you.”
He raised one eyebrow as if to mock her. “Well,” he said in an easy drawl, “we’ve already had dinner together.”
She forced her expression to stay mutinous, even as she remembered how lovely that evening had been. “That wasn’t a date.”
He gave her an oh-so-not-innocent look. “It kind of felt like one.”
Oh God, it really had. She’d felt so comfortable, she’d told him her whole freaking life story. And it had felt good.
But that didn’t mean it was a date. “It was one hundred percent not a date.”
He spread his hands, saying mildly, as if she were a terrified kitten, “All right. If that’s what you want to think.” Which obviously meant her thinking was wrong. “But I did hear a lot about how you grew up and how you started your business.”
Part of her wished she could take it all back. And yet the crazier, dazzled part of her relished having been the center of his attention for two hours.
Then he went for the throat. “I don’t get the sense that you share that much with everyone you have dinner with. Am I wrong?”
He wasn’t. But she certainly couldn’t admit it. She could only double down. “It was not a date. And you and I will never, ever go on a date.” Never, ever, ever !
She thought he muttered, “Doth she protest too much?”
He was too far away, but it was certainly the kind of cocky thing he’d say.
After going for the throat, now he went for the soft underbelly.
“Is it because I’m a billionaire?” Slipping his hands into his pockets, he rocked back on his heels.
“Do you have something against billionaires? I can’t understand why when you work almost exclusively with them.
” His lips curled into a half-smile. “After all, you’re the billionaire matchmaker. ”
Naturally he’d bring that up. The arrogant, contentious, audacious—okay, she wouldn’t call him an ass.
She had to admit he wasn’t an ass at all.
But he did know how to rub her the wrong way.
She felt her hackles rise as if she were a tabby cat going into battle with a Maine coon.
The man befuddled and bewitched her until she couldn’t list all the reasons, even though she’d gone over them for days.
There was only one thing to do. “You need to get out of my office.”
But then, because she was a businesswoman, and she couldn’t help herself, she added, “I’ll find you that boat if you’re still interested.”
She was hooked. No one got this mad if there wasn’t a grain of truth in what he’d said.
And he didn’t even have to give away that Alice Fletcher had inspired this tactic.
But the woman was right; that was exactly when Michaela had become militant and ordered him out—the moment he’d asked if she had something against billionaires.
He thought about closing the distance between them and taking control of the situation by kissing her. Would that melt her stubborn resolve? Did she want it as badly as he did?
But just as his question about billionaires sent her off the deep end, a kiss would shoot her straight into orbit. And not in a good way.
As much as he craved a taste of her, the timing was delicate. And this wasn’t the right time.
Before he turned and walked to the door, he said, “Oh yeah, I really want it.”
He wasn’t talking about the boat.
For the entire day—and into the evening, if he was truthful—Troy wondered if he’d heard what he wanted to hear, when really she’d meant for him to take the boat and shove it. He didn’t receive a phone call or an email, not even a text.
But she called the next day—thank God—saying without preamble, “I found the perfect yacht for you.” He savored the sound of her voice.
There was no equivocation in her words, no I think preceding it. Just like there’d been no equivocation when she’d told him she’d never, ever go out with him.
But he had other weapons in his arsenal. “Great. I’d like to take it for a test cruise.”
She took a gratifying pause, as if his request settled her. “I can arrange that.”
Then he deployed the kicker. “And you have to go with me.”
Another pause, this time deliberate while, he was sure, she thought of how to refuse. “You don’t need me along.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” he said. “You’re the one brokering this deal. You need to see what you’re trying to sell me or the deal is off.”
He didn’t give her a choice. Not like he’d given her a choice about going on a date with him.
He made the deal even sweeter, at least for him.
“But I don’t want the owner to accompany us.
It’s awkward when they hover. People never like to have the owners at an open house, and a boat is no different. ”
Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t fault his logic. “All right, fine.” There was a definite snap in her tone. “Do you want the crew to be on standby? Or would you prefer to take it out yourself?”
Oh no. He wouldn’t crew the yacht himself. He wouldn’t be allowed to without a boating license. Besides, he intended to devote all his time to her. “We’ll need the crew. I can’t assess everything if I’m trying to sail a boat.”
“It’s not a sailboat,” she said. “It’s a yacht.”
And it would have cabins with beds in them, a sundeck, and a pool. Maybe even a hot tub.
The perfect place for seduction.
He was already planning the picnic he’d bring.
He would turn this into a date whether she wanted to call it that or not.
If Troy wanted to make this the most fabulous date—and yes, no matter what Michaela said, it was a date—he needed help.
Desperately. All he knew about her food preferences was that she liked pad thai.
And chicken satay with peanut sauce. She hadn’t requested gluten-free noodles, so that ruled out allergies to gluten and nuts.
But what would she relish? If she could choose anything in the world, what would it be?
He knew of only one source of information: Susan Spencer, who had become friendly with Michaela’s mom. He could get her to ask Flo and take notes while they talked. It was a brilliant idea.
He made his way to Susan and Bob Spencer’s Portola Valley home that very afternoon. Michaela had called back with the date for the cruise: Thursday. He had only tomorrow to prepare, which meant he had to hustle.
Cars filled the circular drive. When he’d called, Susan had said it was fine to come over, but it seemed she was hosting a party.
There was nothing for it. He had to go in. He needed all the deets.
The Mavericks had moved their parents from Chicago a year and a half ago.
Where once the entire Maverick family, the four foster boys included, had resided in a cramped apartment in a subpar neighborhood of Chicago, as soon as they could, the Mavericks had moved the Spencers out to the suburbs.
While Susan and Bob had a lovely home there—which the Mavericks had provided, paying it forward for all the Spencers had done for them—with all the grandchildren arriving, they wanted to be in the Bay Area.
He respected that about the Mavericks. They took care of their own, Bob Spencer working as a baggage handler, even after his back could no longer take it, and Susan as a waitress.
They’d supported one little girl, Lyssa, and five strapping boys who probably ate them out of house and home.
Troy admired Susan greatly. If he ever let himself dwell on it, which he didn’t, he would have wished his parents had been as caring as the Spencers.
Susan answered the door, wearing a pretty blouse and white shorts. A lovely woman approaching sixty, she became ageless when she smiled.
Grabbing his arm, she pulled him inside for a hug.
“It looks like I’m disturbing a party,” he said. “We could do this another time.” Which was merely politeness. There was no other time.
“It’s not a party,” she said with a breezy wave. “It’s not even a get-together. The girls wanted to stop by with the babies.” She shrugged, lifting her hands. “What could I do?” But he knew she adored all her grandchildren.
Still with her hand on his arm, she said, “You aren’t afraid of a few babies, are you?”
Of course he was. “Absolutely not.” Even more, he wasn’t looking forward to discussing his love problems with an audience of Maverick women.