The shoe dropped, hard.
“Is that why you’re here?” Danica stared at Luke. “You were going to ask Johanna to do this.”
A ruddy glint appeared on his sun-bronzed cheekbones. “Do you want a job or not?”
She managed to corral her thoughts into something resembling coherency. “I don’t know the first thing about finding wives. Vice-presidents of finance? Yes. Lifetime partners? You’re on your own.”
“What’s the difference?” he countered. “I give you my list of requirements. You find candidates who match those requirements.”
“But,” she sputtered, searching for words to make him understand, “a wife isn’t an employee. What about, oh, I don’t know, compatibility? Life goals?”
“I look for employees who are compatible with my company’s culture and share my goals for its future. I expect the same from a wife.” He sounded as if he were ordering a custom car, instead of entering a committed relationship with a human being.
“But you can fire an employee. You can’t fire a wife!”
“It’s called divorce. Look, I hire employees who are the best of the best. But I don’t comb the world looking for them. I hire someone to do that for me.” He leaned into the door, his broad shoulder just scant inches from where hers rested against the polished wooden surface.
Her pulse doubled. It had to be from outrage at his ridiculous request. It certainly wasn’t caused by having his attention laser focused on her, his gaze demanding she meet his. “I’d be thrilled to be an executive recruiter for you, but—”
“It’s the same principle. I don’t have time for the necessary getting-to-know-you dates to ensure a potential spouse fits my specific requirements. I’m hiring you to do the vetting for me. Simple.”
“Only it’s not—”
“The successful candidate will need to sign a prenuptial contract so that I can, indeed, ‘fire’ her without consequences if necessary. Just like an employment contract, which you and I will have. It’s highly reasonable.” His direct gaze dared her to disagree.
No wonder he earned the nickname Luke Dalek. He made marriage sound like lines of binary code. “What about falling in love?”
He raised an eyebrow, like a teacher silently reprimanding a student for failing to add two plus two correctly. “The successful candidate will be well compensated for meeting my requirements. As will you for conducting the search. I assume three hundred thousand dollars will cover your retainer fee and costs.”
“That doesn’t answer my—wait. Three hundred thousand dollars?” At his nod, blood thudded in her ears. This time, his nearness had nothing to do with it.
Three. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. What remained of the bills for Matt’s surgery could be paid outright and he could start the experimental treatment. Her parents could stop worrying. Her rent payments would be covered, staving off homelessness for the foreseeable future.
There was even enough money to start her own search firm. Never again rely on an employer’s empty promises.
It sounded too good to be true. And in her experience, when things sounded too good to be true, it meant they would end only in tears: hers. “There are lots of people who are professional matchmakers. Like that TV show, Matchmaker for Millionaires, or whatever it’s called. Why not go to her?”
His upper lip curled. “I would rather replace my laptop with a typewriter. I told you, I don’t have time for the conventional courtship a matchmaker would require. I’m hiring you because my criteria include a successful business track record, experience with high-level philanthropy and an elite education. Qualities you should be familiar with in executive recruitment.”
“Seems like a rather extreme way to meet women.” Exhaustion always caused her mouth to operate separately from her brain’s tact center.
His gaze narrowed, then his mouth upturned ever so slightly. He leaned closer to her. “If I just needed to meet women, I wouldn’t require your services. Believe me.” His low tones rumbled in her ear, causing her knees to turn to water.
She braced herself against the wall. She didn’t want to find Luke Dallas desirable. He was easy to look at, sure. His muscles belonged on a museum statue. His eyes could be used as interrogation weapons: one deep gaze into those blue pools and she was sure spies of all genders would be happy to spill their secrets. It was fun following his exploits in the gossip columns from afar—okay, exciting to imagine herself in the designer dresses of his dates. But in person? Intimidating. Arrogant. And asking the impossible.