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

acreage in Westchester. Hailing from somewhere southwestern, he had that rare combination of boyish charm and Mensa IQ. Common sense not coming into the equation at all.
    So far I’d set him up with four women without success. His reticence was helping my income and ruining my average. But I had high hopes for my latest choice. Lindy Adams was as delicious as she was connected. A year younger than Devon’s twenty-six, she was Barbie to his Ken. A perfect couple.
    At least on paper.
    Judging from the buxom brunette clutching his arm, things were playing out true to form.
    “What are you doing?” I asked, sotto voce.
    “Having a good time.” His smile was meant to be disarming, but fortunately I was immune.
    “With her?” I shot a pointed look in the brunette’s direction. She responded by pouting, her eyes narrowing in a decidedly unflattering fashion. This one recognized a good package when she saw it.
    “Oh, my God,” Cybil said, cupping a hand over her eyes. “Is that Armando Diaz?” Diaz was one of Hollywood’s hotshot producers, a fixture at Bungalow 8 and a sure draw for bimbos of all persuasions.
    “Where?” Chesty asked, her eyes going wide.
    “Over there.” Cybil pointed toward a man holding court by the bar.
    “Oh.” The woman’s voice would do Jayne Mansfield proud. And with an excited squeak she tottered off on five-inch heels, the crowd miraculously parting in the way that could only be accomplished by a double D.
    “What was that all about?” Devon asked, frowning. “I just met her.”
    “You’re supposed to be with Lindy. What happened?”
    “She’s here.” Devon shrugged and reached for a cigarette, only to realize he wasn’t allowed. “Damn Bloomberg.” He slid the silver case back into his pocket and smiled sheepishly. “She’s in the restroom.”
    “And you’ve already picked up another woman?” I tried but couldn’t keep the dismay out of my voice. “Devon, you said you wanted to find a wife.”
    “I do. It’s just hard to ignore the eye candy. You know what I mean?”
    If he’d been ten years older he’d have sounded pathetic, but he wasn’t. He was young, hot, and successful, and in Manhattan that made him a commodity.
    “Look, Devon, I took you on against my better instincts. Don’t prove me right.”
    He actually managed to look chastised. It was the same look that had sucked me into overriding my intuition. “I’m trying.”
    “Maybe a little less clubbing and a little more serious face time with your date?” It was just a suggestion but I delivered it with the authority of a five-star general. It wasn’t what you said as much as how you said it. I learned that from my mother, the queen of innuendo.
    “You’re right. I know you’re right.” He sighed, his gaze traveling up and down the amazing length of one of the Cavalli models.
    “Devon.” I sighed. “Go find Lindy. Make me look good. Okay?”
    He nodded, his attention switching from the model to me. The once-over was less enthusiastic, hut there was admiration there. “I’m not sure you need my help. That dress is hot.”
    I was old enough to be, well, his sister, and I had no illusions about how I looked. But it was a good dress. “Thanks. But flattery isn’t going to work. Go find Lindy.”
    “Fine.” He grinned. “There are worse fates. Like maybe chasing after Mark Grayson?”
    God, the whole freakin’ world read Page Six.
    “I’m not chasing him.”
    “But you are here to see him?”
    I frowned, recognizing the look in his eyes. “Anderson has a big mouth.”
    I’d met Devon through Anderson. Devon worked for Anderson’s firm. Different department, but Anderson had an eye on him anyway. To hear Anderson tell it, Devon’s insight into the market was extraordinary.
    I tended to picture him in a cowboy hat. Stupid, I know. Blame it on the accent or his penchant for using the word “ma’am” all the time.
    “I think he’s upstairs,” Devon said, tipping his head toward