My Fair Billionaire(19)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Anyway, they didn’t have time for another argument. So he only gestured after the hastily departing Caroline and asked, “Are you coming?”

“Do I have a choice?” she replied crisply.

He did shrug this time, hoping the gesture looked more sincere than it felt. “You could wait out here if you want.”

For a moment, he thought she would take him up on that, and a weird panic rose in his belly. She wouldn’t. He needed her to help him with this. He had no idea what kind of woman would be acceptable to his board of directors. Other than that she had to have all the qualities Ava had.

Caroline called back to them, and although Ava tensed even more, she turned in the direction of the matchmaker and began to march forward. Relief—and a strange kind of happiness—washed over Peyton as he followed. Because he needed her, he told himself. Or rather, he needed her help. That was why he was glad she hadn’t stayed in the waiting room. It had nothing to do with how he just felt better having her at his side. The reason he felt better having her at his side was because, you know, she was helping him. Which he needed. Her help, he meant. Not her at his side.

Ah, hell. He was just happy—he meant relieved—that she was with him.

Caroline’s office was a better reflection of her trade. The walls were painted the color of good red wine, and a wide Persian rug spanned a floor that had magically become hardwood. Her desk was actually kind of Victorian-looking, but it was tempered by the sleek city skyline in the windows behind her. On one wall hung certificates for various accomplishments, along with two degrees in psychology from Northwestern. Her bookshelf was populated less by books than by artifacts from world travels, but the books present were all about relationships and sexuality.

Instead of deploying her strategy from behind her desk, Caroline scooped up a small stack of manila folders atop it, invited Peyton and Ava to seat themselves on an overstuffed sofa on the opposite wall, then sat down in a matching chair beside it.

“May I call you Peyton?” she asked with a warm smile.

“Sure,” he told her.

He waited for her to smile warmly at Ava and ask if she could call her by her first name, too, but Caroline instead began to sift through the folders until she homed in on one in particular.

Still smiling her warm smile—which Peyton would have sworn was genuine until she dismissed Ava so readily—she said, “I inputted your vital statistics, your likes and dislikes, and what you’re looking for in a match into the computer, and I found four women I think you’ll like very much. This one in particular,” she added as she opened the top folder, “is quite a catch. Very old-money Chicago, born and raised here, Art Institute graduate, active volunteer in the local arts community, a curator for a small gallery on State Street, contributing reviewer for the Tribune, member of the Daughters of the American Revolution…. Oh, the list just goes on and on. She has every quality you’re looking for.”

Caroline handed the open folder to Peyton, who took it automatically. It contained a few sheets of printed information with a four-by-six head shot attached. It was to the latter that his gaze was naturally drawn. The woman was—well, there was no other word for it—breathtakingly beautiful. Okay, okay, that was two words, but that just went to show how amazingly gorgeous and incredibly dazzling she was. Women who looked like her just demanded adverbs to go along with the adjectives. Her hair was dark auburn and pooled around her bare shoulders; her eyes were huge, green and thickly lashed. He didn’t kid himself that the photo wasn’t retouched or that she would look the same had she not been so artfully made up with the kind of cosmetic wizardry that made a woman look as though she wasn’t wearing makeup at all. She was still… Wow. Breathtakingly beautiful, amazingly gorgeous and incredibly dazzling.

“Wow,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. Well, part of them, anyway. There were some that were best left in his head.

“Indeed,” said Caroline with a satisfied smile. “Her name is—”

“Vicki,” Ava finished, at the same time Caroline was saying, “Victoria.”

The women exchanged looks, then spoke as one again. But, again, they each said something different.

“Victoria Haverty,” said the matchmaker.

“Vicki Nielsson,” said Ava.

The two women continued to stare at each other, but it was Caroline alone who spoke this time. “Do you know Ms. Haverty?”

Ava nodded. “Oh, yes. We debuted together. But Haverty is her maiden name. She’s Vicki Nielsson now.”

Caroline’s eyes fairly bugged out of her head. “She’s married?”

“I’m afraid so,” Ava told her. “And living in Reykjavik with her husband, Dagbjart, last I heard. Which was about two weeks ago.”

“But she gave me an address here in Chicago,” Caroline objected, as if that would negate everything Ava had said.

“On Astor Street?” Ava asked.

Caroline went to her desk and tapped a few keys on a laptop sitting atop it. It was then that Peyton realized all the information on his pages was nonidentifying statistics such as age, education, occupation and interests. “Yes,” the matchmaker said without looking up.

“That’s her parents’ place,” Ava replied. “She does come home to visit fairly often.”

The matchmaker looked at Ava incredulously. “But why would she apply with a Chicago matchmaker if she’s happily married and living in…um, where is Reykjavik?”

“Iceland,” Peyton and Ava said in unison.

The matchmaker looked even more confused. “Why would she apply with Attachments if she’s married and living in Iceland?”

When Peyton looked at Ava, she seemed to be trying very hard not to grin. A smug grin, too, if he wasn’t mistaken. He knew that because she wasn’t doing a very good job fighting it.

“Well,” she began smugly, “maybe Vicki’s not as happily married as ol’ Dagbjart would like to think. And ol’ Dagbjart is, well, ol’,” she added. “He was seventy-six when Vicki married him. He must be pushing ninety by now. The Havertys have always been known for marrying into families even wealthier than they are, but clearly Vicki underestimated that Scandinavian life expectancy. Did you know men in Iceland live longer than men in any other country?”

The matchmaker said nothing in response to that. Neither did Peyton, for that matter. What could he say? Other than, Hey, Caroline, way to go on the background checks.