The Improperly Pregnant Princess. Jacqueline Diamond
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long enough for the intense spike in his abdomen to kick-start his perverse gene.
What was it about a smart woman that never failed to intrigue the hell out of him?
She broke eye contact and scribbled furiously in her notebook, color in her cheeks heightened.
She’d been affected by the heat, too.
He wanted to know more about Elise Arundel without divulging anything about himself that wasn’t surface-level inanity.
“The information about my major was a freebie,” he said. “Anything else personal you want to know is going to cost you.”
If they were talking about Elise—and didn’t every woman on the planet prefer to talk about herself?—Dax wouldn’t inadvertently reveal privileged information. That curtain was closed, and no one got to see backstage.
* * *
Elise was almost afraid to ask. “Cost me what?”
When Dax’s smoke-colored eyes zeroed in on her, she was positive she should be both afraid and sorry. His irises weren’t the black smoke of an angry forest fire, but the wispy gray of a late November hearth fire that had just begun to blaze. The kind of fire that promised many delicious, warm things to come. And could easily burn down the entire block if left unchecked.
“It’ll cost you a response in kind. Whatever you ask me, you have to answer, too.”
“That’s not how this works. I’m not trying to match myself.”
Though she’d been in the system for seven years.
She’d entered her profile first, building the code around the questions and answers. On the off chance a match came through, well, there was nothing wrong with finding her soul mate with her own process, was there?
“Come on. Be a sport. It’ll help me be more comfortable with baring my soul to you.”
She shook her head hard enough to flip the ends of her hair into her mouth. “The questions are not all that soul-baring.”
Scrambling wasn’t her forte any more than thinking on her feet, because that was a total misrepresentation. The questions were designed to strip away surface-level BS and find the real person underneath. If that wasn’t soul-baring, she didn’t know what was. How else could the algorithm find a perfect match? The devil was in the details, and she had a feeling Dax’s details could upstage Satan himself.
“Let’s find out,” he said easily. “What’s the first one?”
“Name,” she croaked.
“Daxton Ryan Wakefield. Daxton is my grandmother’s maiden name. Ryan is my father’s name.” He shuddered in mock terror. “I feel exposed sharing my history with a virtual stranger. Help a guy out. Your turn.”
This was so not a good idea. But he’d threatened her business, her livelihood. To prove her skills, his profile had to be right. Otherwise, he might be matched with an almost–soul mate or worse, someone completely incompatible. Dax wasn’t a typical paying client, and she couldn’t treat him like one. What was the harm in throwing him one bone? It wasn’t as if she had to answer all of the questions, just enough to get him talking.
“Shannon Elise Arundel.”
How in the world had that slipped out? She hadn’t told anyone that her real first name was Shannon in years. Her shudder of terror wasn’t faked.
Shannon, put down that cake. Shannon, have you weighed yourself today? Shannon, you might be vertically challenged but you don’t have to be horizontally challenged too.
The words were always delivered with the disapproving frown her mother saved for occasions of great disappointment. Frowning caused wrinkles and Brenna Burke hated wrinkles more than photographers.
Dax circled his finger in a get-on-with-the-rest motion. “No comment about how your father was Irish and wanted to make sure you had a bit of the old country in your name?”
“Nope. My name is very boring.”
Her mother was the Irish one, with milky skin and glowing red hair that graced magazine covers and runways for twenty years. Brenna Burke, one of the world’s original supermodels, had given birth to a short Black Irish daughter prone to gaining weight by simply looking at cookies. It was a sin of the highest order in Brenna’s mind that Elise had a brain instead of beauty.
Dax quirked his mouth in feigned disappointment. “That’s okay. We can’t all have interesting stories attached to our names. Where did you grow up?”
“This is not a date.” The eye roll happened involuntarily, but the exasperation in her voice was deliberate. “I’m asking the questions.”
“It’s kind of like a date,” he mused brightly as if the thought fascinated him. “Getting to know each other. Awkward silences. Both of us dressed just a little bit more carefully than normal.”
She glanced down at her BCBG suit, which she’d snipped the tags from that morning. Because red made her feel strong and fierce, and a session with Dax called for both. So what? “This is how I dress every day.”
Now she felt self-conscious. Did the suit and five-inch stilettos seem as though she was trying too hard?
“Then I’m really looking forward to seeing what you look like tomorrow.” He waggled his brows.
“Let’s move on,” she said before Dax drove her insane. “This is not a date, nor is it kind of like a date, and I’m getting to know you, not the other way around. So I can find you a match.”
“Too bad. A date is the best place to see me in action.” When she snorted, he inclined his head with a mischievous smile. “That’s not what I meant, but since you started it, my favorite part of dates is anticipating the first kiss. What’s yours?”
She lifted her gaze from his parted lips and blinked at the rising heat in his expression. The man had no shame. Flirting with his matchmaker, whose business he was also trying to destroy.
“Jedi mind tricks only work on the weak-minded. Tell me more about what you like about dating. It’s a great place to start.”
He grinned and winked. “Deflection only works on those who graduated at the bottom of their class. But I’ll let it pass this time. I like long walks on the beach, hot tubs and dinner for two on the terrace.”
Clearly this was slated to be the battle of who had the better psychology degree. Fine. You want to play, let’s play.
“Why don’t you try again, but this time without the Love Connection sound bite? I didn’t ask what you liked to do on dates. I asked what you like about dating.”
“I like sex,” he said flatly. “In order to get that, dating is a tiresome requirement. Is that what you’re looking for?”
“Not really. Plus it’s not true.” His irises flashed from hearth-fire smoke to forest-fire smoke instantly and she backpedaled. “I don’t mean you’re lying. Get a grip. I mean, you don’t have to date someone to have sex. Lots of women would gladly line up for a roll in the sheets with a successful, sophisticated man.”
Who had a face too beautiful to be real, the physique of an elite athlete and eyelashes her mother would kill for. Not that she’d noticed.
“Would you?”
“I don’t do one-night stands.”
She frowned. When was the last time she’d even been on a date? Oh, yeah, six months ago—Kory, with a K. She should have known that one wouldn’t work out the instant he’d introduced himself as such.
“There you go. A woman who would isn’t worth my time.”
Her head snapped back. Was that a compliment? More flirting? The truth?
“So you aren’t just looking for sex.