Matched - Kelli Ireland Mills & Boon Dare

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and I still get paid as if I’d sat through all three rounds.”

      “You have my word.” Jaline eased the paperwork from Rachel’s fist and flipped through several pages. “By choosing to stay, you’re helping to ensure this doesn’t happen...” Her gaze snapped to Rachel’s. “You’re going to want to stay.”

      “Why?” Skepticism weighted the one-word question. “Who is he?”

      “Your next power match is...” Her cheeks flushed, and she fanned herself.

      Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re actually blushing. Who is this guy?”

      “I’ll allow him to introduce himself. But I’ll promise you ahead of time that he’s incredibly easy to look at, he’s the very definition of corporate success and he’s a gentleman through and through. You aren’t going to want to miss this introduction.”

      Curiosity always got the best of her in the worst situations, and this evening certainly qualified as a personal “worst.”

      Jaline seemed to sense her hesitation and leaned in close, speaking low enough that only Rachel could hear her. “I’ll stay within sight. If he says or does anything you don’t like, just...” She looked around and ended up pulling a rubber band out of her little bag. “Put your hair up in a topknot and I’ll come running.” When Rachel still didn’t agree, the woman took her by the arm and steered her across the room, every step taken with undeniable purpose. They neared a table at the far corner of the dance floor. A man sat alone, his back to the room, balancing his chair on the two rear legs. The lazy way he rocked forward and back announced to anyone and everyone that he was thoroughly bored.

      His short, black hair was neatly trimmed. His suit was cut so it framed his broad shoulders and, even slouched as he was, he was tall.

      “That’s him?” she asked, squashing an unexpected wave of anticipation.

      “Yes.” Jaline threw her a little side-eye. “He’ll be worth your time. Trust me.”

      Rachel scowled at her. “I never trust people who say ‘trust me,’” she murmured.

      “Wise,” the man said.

      She shot Jaline a wide-eyed look. “Supersonic hearing?”

      Jaline slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

      He turned just enough to offer her a glance at his profile. “Nothing so extraordinary. I’m just used to people talking about me behind my back.”

      Tall.

       Check.

      From what she could see? Smoking hot.

       Check-check.

      If chemistry sparked between them?

      A shiver ran up her spine.

      Rachel pulled out her chair and slowly sat, facing the man she hadn’t expected to find.

      Mr. Right Now.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      ISAAC LOOKED UP as the chair opposite him was pulled away from the table. A woman in a dark green dress sank onto the seat with incredible grace, setting her clutch in her lap before crossing her legs in a controlled move that drew his attention. His gaze rested on the dress’s short hem before he realized that her legs were bare. In October.

      Isaac shifted slightly in his seat. He had always appreciated the way women’s bodies appeared deceptively softer, their more subtly sculpted lines and lithe forms imbued with inherent grace. And when a woman worked to enhance those fine lines and fluid form? He appreciated it all the more. Without a doubt, the woman who had taken a seat across from him put in more than sufficient time to hone her form. She’d done such a magnificent job that, embarrassingly, Isaac found himself staring.

      Appreciating.

      Craving.

      The woman began tapping a well-manicured fingernail against the small bag in her lap. “Let me know when you’re done with the physical assessment. The timer on our little meeting starts in—” she twisted in her chair, then twisted back “—about three minutes.”

      “Plenty of time, then.”

      “Time for...”

      “Surely you’ve heard how important first impressions are.”

      Her finger—the one tap-tap-tapping her handbag—went still. “And what, exactly, are you doing to secure that all-important first impression?”

      “I’m sitting here trying not to intimidate you.”

      She laughed then, the sound as promising as room-temperature bourbon poured over chilled whiskey stones.

      “Do that again,” he said quietly, his gaze hovering at the highest point of the slit in the dress, the one that exposed a thin strip of smooth skin on the outside of her upper thigh.

      “Do what again?” she asked in that sin-and-redemption voice.

      “Laugh.”

      “Make me.”

      Isaac leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Who was she, this stranger, that she thought she stood a chance in hell of ordering him to do anything at all?

      Had the dress she was wearing been displayed in a museum, it would have been called “Temptation in Textiles.” And with just cause. It was cut so that it showcased her best physical assets—long legs, trim waist, pert breasts, pale skin and that elegant neck, half-hidden by the mass of loosely curled mahogany hair. That strong jaw.

      He liked defined characteristics in a woman—knew men who much preferred their women softer, both in form and personality. Not him. As far as Isaac was concerned, strength was strength. And strength trumped softness each and every time.

      Whoever this woman was, she understood the value of strength.

      But she didn’t realize whom she was facing off with.

      He tried to decide what color he’d call her skin. From that glimpse of thigh to the line of her jaw, the tone was that of diluted honey—warm but not quite tan. The sun would give her more warmth if she spent much time outdoors. But he knew she didn’t. The finger that had tapped her bag was too smooth, unblemished, to belong to someone who did anything outside besides, perhaps, run.

      Another look at her legs and, yes, she was a runner.

      She smiled, and his attention shifted to her lips.

      Lush but not bee-stung. Not thin. Lips that framed a decidedly smart mouth.

      For now, that was amusing. And now was all they’d have. He glanced at the meeting timer. Forty-three minutes.

      “If you’re bored, you could try conversation. It’s a universally accepted means of passing the time.”

      One corner of his mouth twitched. “Are you always so...”

      “Quick-witted?” she offered.

      “Snarky.”

      She shrugged. “Semantics.”

      He quieted, waiting to see what she would add in the hanging silence.

      She stared at him, also waiting on...something. What? Conversation? Yet the longer they sat there, the more clear it became that she might just be able to wait him out.

      Seconds passed, crossing the one-minute mark and dragging on before she couldn’t stand the building tension and broke the silence.

      “Okay,” she said, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the table, her breasts pressed together by her biceps so that her cleavage nearly doubled. “I’ll get the ball rolling.

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