as he imagined his love life as a reality TV show. At least the magazine thing wasn’t that bad. Swiftly, his media-savvy brain assessed the damage as he tried to convince himself this Match of the Year pick wasn’t a total, life-altering disaster.
All at once the most obvious objection sprang to mind. “This is a nightmare. I can’t believe the media group that owns Matchmaker magazine would choose me without my knowledge or consent. I mean, this is an invasion of privacy right here. Where did they even get this picture?” He jabbed a finger at the photograph. “That was taken at our company’s annual general meeting last year.” He flipped a page angrily and saw an even worse sight. “And where the hell did they get my baby picture?” he yelled.
His father chuckled, sending out a puff of cigar smoke.
And in that moment he knew. “Dad.”
He and his father rarely saw eye to eye, but he’d never wanted to deck dear old dad until now. “You gave that photo to them. Didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. We wanted this to be a surprise. You weren’t the only possible candidate, you know. Men all over America would kill to be in your shoes.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“That pleasant young woman who’s the special-assignment editor for Matchmaker magazine. Serena Ashcroft. There’s a picture of the two of you together in the four-page spread.” Darren Kaiser Sr. jabbed his cigar toward the magazine. “You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
Darren flipped none too gently through the pages until he saw even more photos of him at various events, with an assortment of women, including Serena of the big blue eyes and the “Oh, let’s talk about you,” conniving personality.
He’d talked, and she’d either recorded their conversations or she had a damn good memory. There he was, revealed in photographs and print in all his glory. His tastes in everything from music to restaurants laid out for all the world to dine on.
My ideal woman, jumped out at him. They’d displayed this little gem of wisdom in a text box with a larger type size.
My ideal woman is a blonde. She’s a professional woman who knows what she wants from life and isn’t afraid to go after it. Even if that something is me. She’s educated, intelligent, classy, but also very sexy.
Sweat was starting to dampen his brow and he felt like he might puke. He didn’t doubt he’d spouted that nonsense, but he’d never intended it for any ears but Serena’s.
A quick skim told him that there was a Web site where women could write in about themselves and why they would love to date Darren. Since the magazine pledged to do its best to fix him up with eligible women throughout the year, there would be updates about his dating habits, his preferences and his experiences with the opposite sex.
He was having trouble turning the pages and he realized even his fingertips had started to sweat.
“Darren,” his assistant, Jeanie, called breathlessly from his doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got The Tonight Show people on line one and Entertainment Tonight holding on line two.”
“Wonderful. Wonderful,” said his father. “I’ll let you go, then.”
“Dad, what have you done?” Darren asked hoarsely.
“What our company does best, son. I’ve given you an image as the most eligible bachelor in America.”
KATE MONAHAN’S FEET ACHED, which wasn’t surprising since she’d been on them all day. She was halfway through her third twelve-hour shift at New Image, the salon where she worked, in as many days. But her younger brother, Huey, needed braces and she had her eye on a DKNY skirt and jacket that her bargain-hunter nose told her was headed for another markdown, so she tried to think about her bank balance and not her feet.
Graduation season was always a busy, and lucrative, time of year.
“So,” she said to her fourth high-school senior that day, “what are we doing?”
“I want it layered, you know, like Rachel in Friends.”
“Sure.”
“But with the fluttery bangs like Cameron Diaz in Charlie’s Angels. Not the first movie but the second one.”
“Aha.” She shifted feet, trying to get the ache out of her lower back. Her friend and co-worker, Ruby, breezed by and they exchanged a glance, but at least her friend didn’t say anything to make her laugh. With Ruby, you could never tell.
“And the same color as Julianne Moore, only more like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”
“You’re going to dye your hair for grad?”
It never failed to amaze Kate what these girls’ mothers let them get away with.
“Yep. Well, like your hair. What color is that?” the teenager with perfectly attractive brown hair asked her with a squint that was assessing. “Mocha berry or copper glitz?”
Kate grabbed a fistful of the mass of curls that no styling product, blow dryer or curling iron could ever entirely tame. “It’s red, and it’s the color God gave me.”
“Well, God gave me this boring brown and I want to look as hot as you when I graduate.”
Kate sent soon-to-graduate Bethany off to be shampooed and quickly phoned the girl’s mother to make sure it was okay about the color. Anything she wants, was the answer.
At eighteen. Imagine.
Ruby stopped her and said, “Tell that girl that Ashton Kutcher has cuter bangs. And no haircut or dye job is going to make her look like Julia Roberts.”
She stifled a giggle, but Ruby was right. Still, it didn’t hurt to put a little magic in a young woman’s life. She’d do what she could.
Once she had Bethany settled under the dryer, she passed her a sheaf of current magazines, and the brunette, soon-to-be-redhead immediately chose a well-thumbed copy of Matchmaker magazine.
“If I could marry him,” the girl said, pointing a freshly manicured index finger at the photo on the cover, “I’d be set for life.”
Kate gazed at the man’s picture. “Darren Kaiser, Matchmaker’s Match of the Year,” she read, staring at the man deemed so eligible women would go to humiliating lengths to marry him.
Darren Kaiser had playboy written all over him. He had Brad Pitt blond hair, a little long and with just a hint of a curl at the ends. It looked as though each strand had been individually groomed to provide that tousled disorder. He had the sensual face of a man who likes women and usually gets whatever he wants from them. His lips tilted in a smile that was only going through the motions—there was no genuine warmth. Beautiful eyes, she thought, but cynical. He wore a suit, and even though only the shoulders were visible in the picture, she was certain the clothes on his back cost more than her mother spent to feed her family for a year.
Yes, she thought, he was good-looking in a smooth, slick sort of way, but she didn’t see a real man in the photo. More like a perfect image of one.
“He’s
