This is impossible. The man has no match.

In all the years she’d been in the business, Annique had never come across such a dilemma. Everyone had someone they were compatible with.

Though sometimes it took a few tries to really fine-tune the needs of individuals, to figure out who would make them happy. While her dating service couldn’t guarantee a happily ever after, it did usually manage a decent track record when it came to clients dating for months or years, with more than half sticking together even longer than that. She had a wall of wedding pictures from perfect hookups.

Yet, she’d finally hit upon a man who stumped her. A man who seemed perfect on paper and did well in the interviews—because she didn’t accept just anyone into her service. There were some folks who couldn’t deal with love. She didn’t waste her time on them. She wanted single men and women that she knew could handle love but were just too busy to find it.

She flipped through C.R. Montgomery’s file. Great profile pic. Those eyes, so piercing. The beard, rather sexy. His age, a little up there, forty-seven, yet no kids, so he didn’t come with baggage.

Employed steadily with a real estate agency. Wore a suit to work. Owned his penthouse condo, a car, and a motorcycle. Tidy nest egg in the bank. A seasoned world traveler. University educated. No arrest records.

Yes, she was that thorough; her livelihood depended on it. Due to previous experiences, she no longer dealt with gamblers. Their love of losing money usually ended up ruining their chances at a happy match. She also avoided those addicted to hard drugs like Oxy and cocaine. Pot smokers were okay, though, as long as they didn’t use it as an excuse to couch potato all the time.

According to his last physical—and the copy of the blood workup he volunteered—Montgomery was clean.

So what was wrong with him? Why did every date he embark on end in failure?

The women who’d met with him thus far had nothing truly bad to say about him.

He’s very polite.

Gruff, yet sweet.

Doesn’t talk much. The strong and silent type.

Sexy and smells good.

Although those first dates seemed to go well, he hadn’t clicked with any of them. Never called any back for a second date. According to the women, he treated them very gentlemanly, no attempts to get them into bed. Not even a kiss, which meant he wasn’t using her service as a sex buffet.

Good thing. Annique didn’t deal in manwhores or sluts for that matter. Relationships should be about more than just sex.

Why wasn’t he clicking with anyone?

She could think of one reason. Don’t tell me in this day and age there are still men hiding in the closet.

Time to find out if Mr. Montgomery was one of them.

She tapped her glass-covered, touchscreen desktop to open a channel to her assistant’s Bluetooth earpiece.

“Please send Mr. Montgomery in.”

Annique stood, smoothing down the line of her skirt, which dropped past her knees. In a day where skirts got shorter and tighter, she opted for a more modest look. She didn’t want people noticing her for her body. She preferred that they didn’t notice her at all.

As Annique came around the side of her desk, the door opened. Mitzy—her red hair a curly halo around her head and her glasses a cat-eye design in green jade—held it ajar and mouthed, “Wow.”

Wow indeed. Montgomery entered her office and practically sucked all the air from it. How else to explain her sudden gasp?

There was no doubt he was a handsome man. Tall, so very tall. She stood a respectable five-foot-six, and she didn’t quite reach his chin.

He also took the term wide to a new level. He filled out the shoulders of his suit jacket, broad and defined. The button at his midsection didn’t strain over a paunch. According to his file, he kept in shape.

His sharp blue gaze scanned her, and she might have flushed as he took in every detail of her. Not in a lascivious way. His stare never left her face, yet her body reacted as if he’d undressed her with his eyes.

Her hormones were obviously in old-lady overdrive. Her girlfriends had warned her once she hit forty that she might start getting urges.

Urges shouldn’t happen with clients, though.

“You are Mrs. Darlington?”

The deep, rumbling query snapped her out of her fantasy of touching that carefully trimmed beard to test its softness.

Get your mind out of the gutter. No stroking the silver fox.

She held out her hand. “Mr. Montgomery, thank you for taking the time to come and see me.”

“How could I resist a request from the mysterious owner herself?”

“Hardly mysterious, merely very busy.”

“I’m not sure what you think a face-to-face meeting can accomplish.” His hand slipped around hers, and she hoped he didn’t notice her shiver at the touch. His fingers were rough and more callused than a man who worked in an office should have. Did he have hobbies not mentioned in his file?

She pulled her hand free and gestured with it. “I’m not about to give up on you yet. Please, have a seat.”

The seated position didn’t render him less imposing. He still seemed to consume an inordinate amount of room in her office. Given her shallow breaths, the air was also thinner.

He crossed a leg and leaned back in his chair, his eyes partially hooded as he studied her. “I’ve already spoken to your associates several times.”

She had a staff of three working under her, competent people whose tasks involved dealing with clients to fine-tune files. Updating all the tiny little details she’d built into the program, which then sifted through the options and paired those it computed as perfect matches. But, sometimes, black and white facts weren’t enough.

“While our usual methods work for most clients, in some cases, a more personal approach is necessary.”

“Is this your way of saying I’m too complicated?” His lips twisted into a wry grin. Evidence of that sweet charm she’d heard of.

“Perhaps too challenging for the more automated methods, but I’m not about to give up on you. I know your match is out there.”

“Perhaps that person isn’t a member of your agency.”

With hundreds of accomplished clients, she highly doubted that. “I’m not giving up.” She leaned forward in her chair. “We just need to fine-tune your requirements, which is why I’m going to come straight out and ask. Are you homosexual?”

“No.” Flatly spoken.

“There is nothing wrong with an attraction to the same sex.”

“Except, I’m not gay.” His gaze narrowed, and his lips tightened. “I am very much into women. Interesting women, which those you had me meet with were not.”

“Not interesting?” Annique frowned and opened the folder on her desktop, her finger sliding over the touchscreen. A double tap brought a profile to life in the air, a hologram image they could both see of a lovely Asian woman in her early thirties. “Sook Leung is a neurosurgeon who has been studying parasitic activity in the human brain.”

“She also likes to constantly talk about bugs and use medical terms that are quite dull for those of us not in the field.”

Her lips pursed. Good point. Annique swiped sideways. Another woman’s profile picture appeared. “Joanie Maylor.”

“Loves dogs. Big dogs.” He shrugged. “I’m not into canines.”

“What about cats?”

“They’re fine. But I don’t see the point in a pet. They require lots of care, shed, and chain you to your home.”

“They provide affection and companionship.” When he shook his head lightly, she drummed her fingers. “I guess for someone in your position, one who travels a lot, they would be an inconvenience. Your trips out of town are what prompted your search for a woman who would understand the importance of your job and not be too clingy, were they not?” Some men enjoyed a woman who wanted him sleeping over every night. Others preferred a looser leash.

“I won’t be traveling much for the next while.”

“Retiring?”

At that, his nostrils flared, and he glared. “No. I recently underwent some surgery because of an accident. And, I will also note, I am not that old.”

“It wasn’t meant to offend or to imply anything about your age. It’s just not unusual to do a certain job for a long time and then decide you want something new. Different.”

“I kill at my job.” He smiled, and there was something dark and naughty about it that roused a carnal part of her.

“I don’t see much here in the way of hobbies,” she noted, pulling up a different screen, looking at her desktop rather than him.

He disturbed her. Not in a creepy, he-scares-me fashion, but more of a mysterious and intriguing holy-shit-I’d-jump-his-bones kind of way.

Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Wet panties weren’t a reason to get involved with someone. She didn’t let her clients do it, and she shouldn’t be susceptible either.

“Hobbies are for the bored,” Montgomery replied.

“But, surely, you do something in your downtime? Yachting? Jogging?” He shook his head. “Television? Staring at a blank wall?” she threw out with a little frustration. The man couldn’t possibly work twenty-four-seven?

“I don’t cook or clean either. I have a service that handles both.”

“You can’t seriously just eat, work, and sleep.”

“I exercise.”

Her expression brightened. “That’s a hobby.”

“And shoot guns.”

She made notes. “Someone athletically inclined.” Which took her out of the equation—exercising was for those who didn’t huff and puff on stairs. She wasn’t overweight—by much—but she wasn’t scrawny either.

And why the hell did her mind bother to dwell on it? She was not a contender in his search for a girlfriend.

His brow furrowed. “We tried sporty types. Dates number seven and nine.”

She flung the files for those women up in the air and perused them. “What was wrong with them?” Because both ladies posted highly favorable scores, yet he’d never contacted them for a second date.

“It just wasn’t…” He paused, and his expression didn’t look troubled, more perplexed, as if he didn’t know the right word.

Annique did. “It didn’t feel right.” She nodded. “At least you recognize it.”

“Yeah, I recognize the fact that this probably isn’t going to work. I was stupid to think it would.” He stood and loomed over her desk.

“Don’t go. Not yet. I know we can find someone.” Annique popped to her feet.

“I’m done wasting time and money.”

“This one is on me,” she offered. “Actually, at this point, consider my services free until we find you someone.”

He groaned. “Are you turning me into a pro bono case? That’s pathetic.”

“No, it’s called good customer service. You are right. You’ve paid enough. It’s not your fault we haven’t adequately served you. I’m going to handle your case personally from now on.” Back to the basics of her company. Once upon a time, it had been just her and a database setting people up. It’d turned into a million-dollar affair. Time to get back to her roots.

“And what does having you handle me mean?” He managed to imbue those words with innuendo, enough to make her feel heat rise in her cheeks.

“It means no more computer matches for you. I’m going to handpick your next date. But before I do that, I want to get to know you better so I can understand your needs.”

“And how do you propose to understand my needs?” There was that sultry tone again.

She made sure her left hand, previously tucked on her lap, was placed flat on her desk, ring finger showing. “We are going to go on a date.”

“As in you and me?” He darted a pointed look at her ring finger. “Aren’t you married?”

Nope. She’d come close once, and thanked her stars it never happened. However, making Montgomery think she was married would serve to act as a boundary between them. “Yes, I am. What I’m suggesting isn’t a real date per se. It’s more of a study. I want to see you in action. Get a better feel for your personality.”

I’d rather feel his body.

Ugh. What was wrong with her today?

“You want to observe me by dating me.” A short bark of laughter emerged from him. “That’s certainly different. Do you offer this kind of personalized service for all your clients?”

At that, she smiled and couldn’t help but tease. “Only for the difficult ones. So, what do you say? Will you have dinner with me, Mr. Montgomery?” Now, who was flirting? Poor man must be wondering about the mixed signals.

“Why the hell not. I’ll give you and your company one last chance.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

His lips pulled into a wide smile. “I guess that will depend on you. So, for this fake date, where do I pick you up and what time?”

“You don’t need to give me a lift. I’ll make reservations and text you the restaurant location.”

“I’d rather choose.”

Someone had control issues. Perhaps a strong, independent woman wasn’t the right choice for him.

“Fine. Text me a time and place at this number.” She slid a card across her desk, and he didn’t even look down as he palmed it.

“Until tonight, Mrs. Darlington.”

Tonight? For some reason, the very idea frazzled, and she glanced at the time as the door shut.

She had only a few hours to get ready, and she spent those alternately staring off into space, imagining a big, bearded man seducing her, and then chastising herself for those same fantasies.

Beep. Her phone chimed, and she looked down.

The Menton. 7:30 pm.

Immediately, her heart began to race. Why such excitement over good food? Or was it more the thought of being in an intimate setting, the tone for the Menton posh and romantic?

Her body flushed hotly. Anticipation filled her, which was why she replied, out loud, “Sorry, not tonight,” to his text message.

It was the right thing to do. Obviously, her attraction to him would prove to be a problem. Best to avoid it. Avoid him. At least until she could get her libido to settle down.

A calm and rational decision, so why the disappointment?