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What was he doing? He wasn’t a judge at a beauty pageant. This mental score sheet thing was becoming ridiculous. He’d been doing it ever since he’d last seen—ever since he’d left New York. Date a woman, check off her attributes, do a quick comparison between her and—
Definitely ridiculous.
Any man in his right mind would have given tens to the last three women he’d dated, but he’d sat across from them, just the way he was sitting across from Phoebe, coldly, methodically picking them apart.
Was it him? Was he getting jaundiced at the age of thirty? Or was it the women? Were they becoming less desirable?
Matthew’s lips twitched. Damn if he hadn’t caught Phoebe’s disease. He was thinking in question marks.
Who was he kidding?
He was thinking of Susannah.
That was the reason he couldn’t seem to concentrate on any one woman or find one whose company he enjoyed. They were all gorgeous and fun to be with, and some of them could even carry on a conversation. But not one of them was Susannah.
Susannah, who’d argue about anything at the drop of a syllable.
Susannah, who could make a sweatshirt and jeans look sexy.
Susannah, who didn’t need false eyelashes and a palette of paint to be beautiful.
Susannah, who could never have kissed a guy named Sam or one named Peter the way she’d kissed him, or they’d never have let her out of their arms.
“Matthew? I think that’s your phone ringing?”
Matthew blinked. Phoebe was smiling prettily, head cocked, chocolate eyes big and round. She was right. His phone was making urgent sounds. He smiled back, apologized for the interruption and reached into his pocket.
It was Joe.
“Am I interrupting anything that shouldn’t be interrupted?” he asked slyly.
Matthew looked at Phoebe. She took the cherry from her drink and gently rolled it between her lips.
“Not yet, you aren’t. What’s up?”
Joe’s tone turned businesslike. “I figured you’d want to know the deal in Connecticut went through.”
“Great. Anything else?”
“No, not really. Well, yeah. Something came in from New York a couple of days ago I think you might want to know about.”
Matthew sighed. “Better late than never, right? What was it?”
“Susannah called and asked me to approve a chunk of money.”
Phoebe, still playing games with the cherry, batted her lashes.
“How much did she ask for?”
Joe named a sum. Matthew whistled.
“She planning on buying a small country?” he said, and smiled at Phoebe, who smiled back.
“Well, it seems she’s got this hot idea…”
Matthew listened. And listened. When he figured he couldn’t listen anymore, not without exploding, he mouthed an apology to Phoebe, who’d opened her compact to repair any ravages left by her exercise with the cherry, rose from the table and walked to the bar.
“Let me be sure I’ve got this right,” he said slowly. “Susannah is going to Paris with a photographer, a makeup guy, a stylist, a hairdresser and a writer.”
“More or less. There’s a couple of others, too.”
“They’re going to stay in two-thousand-dollar-a-day suites—”
“Susie stays in the suite. Everybody else gets regular rooms.”
“An admirable economy,” Matthew said icily.
“Well, not everybody else. Stefan, Bart, Zeke and Alejandro get suites, too. But you’d figure that.”
The Four Stooges? Matthew thought wildly.
“Who?” he asked.
“The sexiest guy finalists. The promotion. Remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, they narrowed the list to four guys. A rocker. A model. Some writer who’s got a hot book coming out. And listen to this, man, that actor, Bart Fitt.”
“The one who goes around with his bottom hanging out?”
“That’s the one. Susie’s taking them all with her to Paris.”
Matthew felt as if a giant fist had just landed in his solar plexus.
“We must have a bad connection,” he said, very calmly. “Because I thought I heard you say—”
“You did. The whole bunch is going to Paris with her. See, this hotel’s the place CHIC’s picked as their sexiest getaway, and Susie figures the way to get the most mileage is for her to represent Everywoman. I mean, that’s the way she gears her column.”
“Everywoman, how?” Matthew asked, trying to keep his voice steady even if his blood pressure wasn’t.
“She’ll spend the weekend with these four sexy guys. Eat with them, sleep with them—”
“Sleep with them?”
His voice rang out. People seated at the bar turned in his direction. Matthew turned his back.
“Well, not sleep with them. Take it easy, okay? I was speaking metaphorically.”
“Yeah.” Matthew took a breath, ran his hand through his hair. “Sorry, Joe. I, ah, I… So, how’d she react when you told her it was a no-go?”
“A no-go?”
“I can just picture her face when you told her there wasn’t a way in hell I’d let her spend a weekend in Paris with… Not a way in the world we’d approve such an expenditure.”
The cell phone hummed with silence. Matthew’s blood began humming, too.
“You did tell her that, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I told her it sounded like a fantastic idea—”
“What?”
“—and that she had my blessings.”
Matthew opened his mouth, then shut it. He strode through the cocktail lounge, weaving h
is way between tables, until he was standing beside Phoebe.
“Matthew?” she said. “Are you okay?”
Joe was saying the same words in his ear.
“I’m fine,” Matthew replied, and drew back Phoebe’s chair. “Joe?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Phone Hank. Tell him I’ll be at the airport at midnight.”
“Hank and the jet are in Tulsa. Remember? You told him to fly Frank down to check out that factory.”
Matthew cursed under his breath. “Forget Hank. Call TWA. United. Air France. I don’t care who, just get me to Paris.”
“Paris?” Joe said.
“Paris?” Phoebe said.
Matthew forced a smile to his lips. “I’m afraid I’ve had a change of plans,” he told a bewildered Phoebe as he signed the check, took her elbow and hustled her to the door. “Would you mind very much if I put you in a taxi and you saw yourself home?”
“Matt,” Joe said, “are you nuts? You can’t put me in a—”
“Not you,” he growled, as he all but shoved Phoebe into a cab and stuffed bills into the driver’s hand. The cab sped off, and Matthew glowered into the phone. “That was my date, you idiot. I put her into a cab, but you I’m going to put into an asylum. How could you tell Susannah it would be all right for her to take a—a male harem to Paris?”
“It’s not a harem. It’s a publicity stunt. I know it’s a lot of money, but—”
“I don’t give a flying fig about the money. My concern is strictly for—for the image of the magazine.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Matthew switched the phone to his other ear as the valet pulled his car to the curb.
“Did you ever consider what readers might think when they see a layout of CHIC’s editor, lying around in a Paris hotel room, being fawned over by a small army of—”
“Studly males?” Joe laughed. “I think they’ll turn green with envy, Matt. And I think you’re doing the same thing, although for very different reasons.”
Matthew tipped the valet, got behind the wheel of his Porsche and shifted into gear.
