By Magic Alone (9 page)

Blinking, as if confused, he said, “Joke?”

Any remaining doubt fled. “Harry Johnson is not your name. And this”—I pointed to the computer screen—“is not your profile. I don’t know why you thought it would be funny to—”

“Maybe they are. How do you know?” he shot back. “As I said, people can surprise you.”

“Yes, but I have excellent instincts.” People rarely surprised me. Though this guy had.

“Do you?” he asked with a wink. “Explain, please.”

“I pegged you as a well-off businessman the second you walked in. You probably come from money. You were courteous and respectful.” I pushed out a breath, trying to keep my temper at bay. “And while you care deeply for appearances, you did not set off my slime alarm.”

“Go on,” he prodded. “This is fascinating.”

“But as soon as we delved into your . . . abnormal responses, you were unable to keep a straight face. Then, right there at the end, your muscles tensed, your voice pitched, and your eyes. They’re a dead giveaway.” If my temper hadn’t climbed so high, I would’ve caught on sooner. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t caught on sooner. I blamed my lack of comprehension on the past twenty-four hours. “Why would you do this? My time is valuable to me, Mr. Whoever-you-are, and I don’t appreciate it being wasted.”

He had the nerve to whistle. “You are good. Your dad said you were, but I had to see for myself.”

“My father?” All at once, the rest of the pieces came together. I squinted my eyes, merging the face I remembered with the face in front of me. “Jameson Parkington?”

“There you go. Can’t believe you didn’t catch on right away.” Warmth flooded his features, reminding me of how much I’d liked him when he walked in my door. “It was a bet of sorts. I had no idea you’d get so upset.”

I counted to ten, but no way was that going to be enough, and I didn’t relish the thought of counting to one hundred. Instead, I asked, “Bet? With my father?”

“He said I wouldn’t be able to put one over on you. For
some reason it was important to him that I try. And what’s important to your dad is important to mine.” Jameson shrugged in a careless manner. “But when you became so angry, so protective of your clients, it didn’t seem as funny.”

“Wait. Why would my father
want you
to do this?”

“Something about proving you were a chip off the old block.” Jameson schooled his expression so I couldn’t read it. “Maybe he has plans for you at his firm?”

Even as I accepted that as the truth, it brought a new bout of aggravation. This sounded exactly like something Gregory Collins would do to a prospect. In truth, I’d always thought his methods were inventive and sort of cool. Being the target was a different story.

“There was a second there, right when I got here, that I was sure you’d recognized me,” Jameson said. “I’m surprised you didn’t.”

I wasn’t. I hadn’t seen Jameson since my college-graduation party. He’d had long hair, thick-rimmed glasses, and we’d said maybe three words to each other. Actually, it was a shocker I’d recognized him at all. “Does my father know
how
you were going to pull this off?” Because try as I might, I couldn’t see my dad putting his stamp of approval on any of this.

“That would be a no. It’s probably best if we don’t tell him, either.”

The faintest flicker of humor came alive. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I was still ticked, but I’d be hard pressed not to admit the joke had been clever. Disgusting, yes. Annoying, hell yes. But clever. I rubbed my hands over my face and groaned. “Really, Jameson? Household objects? Farm animals? It worries me that you thought of those at all, even as a joke.”

“Nah,” he said easily. “Wasn’t my demented brain that came up with that stuff. I called an acquaintance of mine. He . . . ah . . . ran several
specialty
Web sites for years. He
supplied the down and dirty answers.” Jameson pointed at the monitor. “But somewhere in Chicago, a guy with that name is sure to exist. You might want to delete the profile.”

“Oh, I will.” Like the second he exited my office. God. I still wanted to throttle him. “I thought you were coming in Monday, anyway. Your little joke couldn’t have waited until then?”

“I thought of that,” he confessed. “But decided not to. My plan was to leave today with you thinking I was Mr. Johnson. Which would’ve made Monday a lot of fun. But you were too upset for me to keep going,” he added sheepishly.

He angled his left leg over his right, the tension in his slacks pulling them up at the hem. I chewed on the inside of my lips to stop a grin from emerging. He wore socks emblazoned with cartoon characters. My
favorite
cartoon characters: Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner.

In the snap of a finger, the rest of my annoyance evaporated. Here he was, dressed in a suit that cost more than most people earned in a month, and he’d teamed it up with quirky socks. Yeah. I liked that.

“It’s funny you showed up. I . . . um . . . was going to call you today, anyway.”

His brow raised in question. “About?”

“That preholiday shindig you invited me to. If the offer is still open, I’d love to go.” There, I’d said it. And the words didn’t kill me, either. How about that?

“Admit it. I bowled you over with my creativity, didn’t I?”

“That’s one way to put it.” I laughed in spite of myself. “Well? No fair to keep a girl waiting.”

“I’d love to escort you to my family’s ‘shindig.’ But why don’t we get together this weekend, too? Say Sunday for lunch? Brunch?”

“Um . . . sure, that sounds okay.” If he were really interested,
he’d have gone for a Friday or Saturday evening. Sunday lunch/brunch was saved for current girlfriends, not would-be girlfriends. But I was okay with that. More than okay, actually. “About one?”

“One it is.” He rose to a stand. “I am sorry for upsetting you. I like jokes, and I remembered you were always the serious sort. When Gregory broached the idea of testing you, I thought it might be fun to shock you.”

“You were successful, Jameson.” I rounded the desk to show him out. “About Monday. Are you still coming in?”

He stared at me in an intense way that brought about inane thoughts of hearts and flowers and chocolates. “Well, why not? My profile’s already loaded and ready to go.” Tipping an imaginary hat, he said, “It’s been a pleasure, Julia.”

I nodded and watched him leave. The instant he disappeared, I beelined it for my PC. With a few taps of my fingers, I had Jameson Parkington’s real profile up. With a few more taps, I had the women he was most compatible with.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” I mused, staring at the results.

Ninety-four percent compatibility. One of the highest I’d seen. And the lucky woman was none other than myself. Yep. Definitely interesting. And slightly off-putting to see that my parents were, once again, right on the money.

“Why is there never anything to eat when I’m starving?” I grumbled, searching the freezer for something other than one of the many low-calorie, low-fat, and low-flavor frozen meals I’d bought. Hey, they were on sale: two for one. I figured they’d be edible.

Wrong.

Frustrated and ravenous, I gave up and grabbed the box that claimed to be spaghetti. Nights like this almost made me yearn for Wednesdays. My parents might drive me crazy, but Rosalie was an excellent cook. Well, when lamb wasn’t on the menu.

Some of my best childhood memories were of Rosalie teaching me to cook. I was good at it, too. But who had the time? Not me.

I ripped open the packaging, air-vented the plastic coating, and set the meal to rotate through radio waves that would cook it by exciting the food’s water and fat molecules. Yes, I am well aware of how geeky it is to understand the basic science of microwave cooking. I like to think that’s part of what makes me special.

After my long night at Magical Matchups, my morning with Verda, and the weirdness of Jameson, aka Harold, I was ecstatic to be home. Even better, I’d decided to play hooky the following day in order to go through Verda’s paperwork. I rarely skipped, but Friday was the only day of the week that Diane put in a full eight hours, so the timing couldn’t have been better. Especially with zero appointments scheduled. Well, that wasn’t exactly good news, but it made taking the
day off easier. Tonight, however, was me, the couch, and as much of the first season of
Seinfeld
that I could fit in before falling asleep.

While the faux spaghetti did its thing, I stripped off my skirt and blouse in my bedroom. The panty hose came next. I sighed in relief as I slid on my oldest, comfiest, I-wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-in-these-in-public pajamas. I washed my face, removed my hair from its clip, and was about to grab the DVD when someone knocked on my door. Unless Kara and Leslie had changed their minds about the horror movie they’d suggested, it wasn’t them. Besides, they almost always let themselves in.

Returning to the living room, I slid the chain onto the door before opening it a crack—just in case—and peered through. My gaze landed on the last man on earth I expected to see. Seriously. I’d have been less shocked to find Elvis Presley.

“Why?” I sputtered, instantly caught somewhere between pleasure, confusion, and defensiveness. “What are you doing here?”

“Open up, Julia. We need to talk,” Scot—yes,
that
Scot—said.

“I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m not interested. Go away, Scot.”

“This is important. You can let me in or I can make a nuisance of myself out here.” Raising his voice to just this side of a shout, he added, “In the hearing of all your neighbors!”

“Go ahead and shout! I don’t care if my neighbors hear you,” I replied. He probably meant Leslie, who wasn’t home. He could make all the noise he wanted.

“This is silly. We can stand here and go on and on, or you can let me in, we can talk, and then I’ll be more than happy to take off.”

My confusion increased. “But why are you here? What could you possibly have to say to me after this morning?”

“If I told you now, there’d be no reason for me to come in, would there?” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Let me in.”

A shiver rolled out from the pit of my stomach. I bit my lower lip and pretended to consider his request. “I don’t want you here. Go away,” I said again.

He sighed. “Okay, look. I know this seems odd, and I don’t want to be an ass and create a scene, but for something this important, I will.” He blinked long, thick lashes at me. Lashes that deserved to frame a woman’s eyes. “Just give me a chance to explain.”

Important? What was he going on about? “Or what? You’ll huff and puff and blow my apartment down? As strong and manly as you are, you can’t have that much hot air.”

“Are you flirting?” he asked, suddenly grinning. “I didn’t expect that.”

“No! I am not—” The microwave beeped in the kitchen, saving me from saying something else stupid. “My dinner’s done. Closing the door. See ya.”

Scot stuck one foot into the opening, effectively halting the slam. “I come bearing gifts.” He brought a large box into view. “Pizza. And not just any pizza, but Vito’s. Pepperoni and mushroom. Your favorite, isn’t it?”

Oh, dear God. I could smell it. My mouth watered. My stomach growled. I’m not ashamed to admit that there is very little I wouldn’t do for a Vito’s pepperoni and mushroom pizza. I scowled and shored up my willpower. “I have dinner. Take your pizza and go.”

Lifting the lid, he tilted the box forward. “Come on, Julia,” he said. “Thirty minutes of conversation for half of this pizza. What do you say?”

Hell. I could let him in, eat a decent dinner, hear what he had to say, and then go on with my evening. “I’m pretty sure
I hate you right now,” I said, though my eyes fastened on the pizza. My stomach growled again, louder, and a silent moan gurgled in my throat, begging to be released. “But you win.”

“Good. I’m glad you see it my way.”

I kicked at his foot with mine, trying to convince myself that this wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, I had a few questions for him, anyway. He pulled his foot back; I closed the door to remove the chain and then opened up again. Sighed. “Come on in.”

He sauntered inside as if he belonged there, all long legs and cocky attitude. I didn’t shut the door right away, just stood there like an idiot and stared. He sort of reminded me of James Dean, with the leather jacket, tousled chestnut hair, and a hint of danger in those chocolate eyes. Or maybe Johnny Depp.

Okay, I know—very different guys with very different looks, but somehow, Scot reminded me of both. A realization that did nothing to calm my whipped-up nerves.

“Cute pajamas,” he said, taking in my appearance. “Are those baby sheep?”

Heat flushed through me. “Yes. They were a gift from a friend.” Hell, why was I explaining? “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” I resisted the urge to run to my bedroom and change. “Now, why are you here?”

“Close the door,” he commanded. Firm, sensual lips curved into a stiff smile. Again, I had the nonsensical want to bury my nose in his neck and breathe in. No man has the right to smell that freaking fantastic. Balancing the pizza box with one hand and then the other, Scot unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off. His movements were fluid, graceful, and for some reason, surprising. My mouth went dry, and suddenly the last thing on my mind was dinner. “Come on. Close the door and we’ll eat,” he said. “And then we’ll talk.”

Why was he being so nice? I tried to pull myself out of
my daze, tried to make sense of what he was up to. Maybe he wanted to apologize? He’d brought food. Which, for me, was way better than flowers. His body was relaxed, and he’d actually smiled.

“I’m not sure what we have to discuss, but whatever.” My voice wobbled, which annoyed me, but I shoved the door so it slammed shut. Straightening my spine, I said, “How’d you know what type of pizza to bring?”

He held out the box. “I called Leslie. She said it would do the trick.”

His words bounced around my brain but refused to stick. “You called Leslie?”

“Yup. Why? Is that a problem?”

Hell, yes, that was a problem. See, I hadn’t exactly gotten around to telling Leslie about my night at Magical Matchups, or that Scot was Verda’s grandson. I hadn’t mentioned the soul-mate thing, either. I’d planned to. I would’ve. Probably over the weekend. But as worried as I was about all of that, I was more concerned for Leslie. “Are you insane?”