Free A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) by Dee Davis Page A

Cavalli-dressed mannequins emerging from behind glittering curtains in an endless stream of amazing couture.
    Trays of the club’s infamous watermelon martinis wended their way through the crowd, the excellent waitstaff making certain that no one was left without libation. I passed on the martini with a shiver of memory and chose champagne instead.
    “Quite a crowd,” Cybil whispered, sipping a martini. Obviously her stomach was stronger than mine.
    “And then some.” I nodded to a hard-bodied man in Tommy Hilfiger, shirt open to the waist. He flexed as he walked past us, and I resisted the urge to pinch to see if it was real.
    Three scantily clad twentysomethings passed in his wake, their eyes locked on his now undulating derriere.
    “ Bungahos ,” Cybil said, with a catty smile almost reminiscent of pre-breakup.
    Bungahos were women (and I suppose men) who hung out at Bungalow 8 with startling regularity. Hangers-on who could get in— just —and intended to make the most of the fact.
    “I don’t think so. The look isn’t right.” I nodded at blonde number two. “Definitely off-the-rack. My guess is they’ve been admitted as part of someone’s entourage.”
    Cybil tilted her head, studying them as they walked away. “You’re right. My vote is Banana Republic.”
    Now, please understand that in normal life there is nothing at all wrong with buying clothes from Banana Republic, but if you’re trying to capture the attention of someone of the opposite sex in a place like this, you have to dress for the challenge.
    Unfortunately these girls hadn’t gotten the memo. I smiled kindly, thinking what I could do for them, and then pushed the thought aside. I wasn’t here for recruits.
    “You see him?” Cybil asked, as usual reading my thoughts.
    “No.” I shook my head, trying to pitch my voice beneath the music. “But I can’t see more than about a foot in front of me. There’re too many people in here.”
    As if on command the Dolce & Gabbana crowd shifted and there beside a potted palm and a red velvet banquet I saw a flash of gold Ungaro and the perfect symmetry of an auburn pageboy.
    Althea.
    Fortunately, she was talking to an editor from Woman’s Day . Martha something-or-other. If memory served, the woman was a chatterbox. Which at the moment suited my purposes perfectly since it bought me valuable time.
    Assuming, of course, Althea hadn’t already found our quarry.
    The thought sent panic coursing through me, but a long sip of champagne stopped it cold. I traded in my empty glass for a full one, letting the frosty bubbles bolster my courage.
    “If he’s here, he’ll be up there,” Cybil said, gesturing to the glass-enclosed VIP lounge above our heads. If getting into Bungalow 8 took connections, getting up to the VIP lounge took credentials.
    Thank God Anderson had them. Which meant that my gold-edged invitation trumped the bulk of the crowd holding simple white ones. Althea’s, of course, would have gold as well. So the race was on.
    “Help me get through the crowd.” I was already moving, using a strategic smile, as well as a well-placed elbow, to work my way forward.
    Cybil moved to my left, flanking me on that side. It was a dance choreographed through years of clubbing. We might have been on the wrong side of the age equation, but what we lacked in skin tone we more than made up for with experience.
    In fact, we’d almost made it to the überbouncer when I felt a hand on my arm.
    “Vanessa. I knew you’d be here.” Speaking of young and perfect.
    Devon Sinclair was a client. One I’d taken on in a fit of optimism that I had a feeling I was going to live to regret. In all truth, he was too young for this game. Too many wild oats to sow. A wunderkind on Wall Street, with a seven-figure income and the pubescent mind of a teenager.
    If a male could in fact be a bungaho, Devon fit the bill to a T. Except that in addition to all the philandering, he supposedly yearned for 2.5 kids and