A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Read Free Page A

all the better to keep it shut. This wasn’t a task to enter into lightly. I mean, this public an endeavor could very well backfire, leaving my newly flourishing business deep in Chapter 11. A matchmaker who fails doesn’t get a lot of repeat business.
    But the olive apparently had not gotten the message. It slid blissfully down my throat and my mouth seemed to open of its own accord. “I’m in.”
    There was silence for a moment, but I knew it wasn’t going to last. Althea wasn’t the type to ignore a gauntlet, and I had just thrown one.
    “Then so am I, darling.” What can I say, I know the woman well.
    Cybil raised her glass. “May the best woman win.”
    We clinked and drank, and something akin to sheer terror settled in my stomach. Or maybe it was the martinis. Either way the contest was on.
    It was me or Althea.
    Winner takes Manhattan.

Chapter 2
    Michael Coy. The Corcoran Group, 660 Madison Avenue (between Sixtieth and Sixty-first streets), 212.605.9389.
     
    A contented downtown resident, Michael Coy seeks to make your real estate experience just as fulfilling with his results-driven approach and focus on customer service. Add to that his great integrity, trustworthiness, and respect for clients’ time, and you get the makings of the only broker you’ll ever need for your real estate requirements.
    —www.corcoran.com
    ∞∞∞
    You didn’t think I was going to tell you where I lived, did you?
    But , since I’m not going to share that little tidbit, I thought I’d give you then next best thing. My broker. I mean, in New York finding the right apartment ranks just behind making certain you’re dressed in this year’s fashions. It’s all about location— and closet space. And fortunately, thanks to Michael, I had both.
    However, just at the moment I wasn’t certain I cared. Not only was I entertaining the mother of all hangovers (I really should have known better), I was playing the role of apologetic mother for Waldo.
    Seems he’d been doing his Colin-love-’em-and-leave-’em-Farrell impression again. Let me clarify before you head off in the wrong direction. Waldo is my cat. Actually Waldo is nobody’s anything. It’s more like I’m his person. And just at the moment, that was not a particularly enviable position.
    You see, Waldo has had the hots for Arabella for months now, and apparently his lust led to a Houdini-like breakout that landed him inside my next-door neighbor’s apartment. (She said she’s got hair strands to prove it.) And anyway, push come to shove—which is absurdly appropriate in this situation—Waldo did his manly thing, and Arabella—a purebred Burmese—is now pregnant.
    And since Waldo’s heritage is more uptown than Upper East Side, it’s not a good thing.
    At least from Edna Melderson’s point of view. Arabella actually seemed fine with it. And Waldo was positively strutting. But Mrs. M. was threatening board action, and believe me, that’s a hell of a lot worse than being hauled in front of the headmaster for freezing Debbie Robertson’s bra. (How were we to know it would stick to her skin and cause permanent damage?)
    So instead of meeting Cybil at Bergdorf’s for their handbag sale, I was standing in my apartment with an angry blue hair, and my second best friend, Anderson Wright.
    Anderson runs one of the largest investment firms on Wall Street—which he thinks is irony at its very best. Testosterone land ruled by a queen.
    I’d called him as soon as I got the message about Arabella. I wasn’t the type to face danger on my own, I needed someone on point, and since Anderson was my neighbor on the other side, he was perfect for the job.
    The fact that he’d brought his partner, Richard, was all that much better. The two men were not easily cowed and therefore the kind you wanted in your corner. And in this case, I needed the backup. If you check in the dictionary under “intimidating,” you’ll find Edna’s picture. Hailing from Massachusetts, she