That was the other problem with being single in New York society. Everyone wanted the feather in their cap of being the one to pair you off. A hundred years after Edith Wharton, and matchmaking was still the preferred sport of the rich.

Elodie had been in love precisely once, back in the early nineties.

Four years out of Columbia, Elodie was hitting her stride as her father’s heir apparent. As far as her sisters went, it wasn’t even a contest: Celeste was away at grad school, and Paulina was flitting around the world being photographed by tabloids and sleeping her way through Europe’s most eligible gene pool. Elodie was delighted. After being in the shadow of both of them for her entire life, she finally had her father’s attention—and the company—all to herself.

Every year the agency built a campaign around Pavlin & Co’s holiday collections. Alan paid a small fortune for the annual blitz of magazine ads and television spots. As he always said, desire had to be invented.

“Miss Pavlin, we have a new account executive working with us on this project,” said the agency CEO, Jim Rizzi, when the conference room was fully seated. “This is Liam Maybrook.”

Elodie took in his wavy dark hair, cornflower blue eyes, and sharp cheekbones. He was tall and lean and when he reached over to shake her hand, Elodie felt as if the chair dropped out beneath her.

“We just lured him away from TBWA/Chiat/Day and we’re delighted to say he’s hit the ground running on this,” Jim added.

Liam Maybrook gave her a brief nod before launching into his presentation, using a projector to run through a slide show.

He was dressed in a jacket and tie, and he moved with a stiff formality. But there was something devil-may-care in those deep blue eyes. He spoke with an absolute command of the room, and she found herself almost holding her breath.

At the end of the presentation, it was as if she snapped out of a dream. She was there to either sign off on the pitch or ask for a different direction. She found herself unable to do either.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” she said. Jim Rizzi, sensing that she was being euphemistic for “I hated it,” jumped in with, “Look at the time! It’s almost five. Who can make decisions on an empty stomach? Let’s discuss this over dry martinis and rare steaks.”

The Palm was just a few blocks away on Forty-Fourth and Second Avenue. The maître d’ seated their large party immediately.

“I eat here four or five nights a week,” Jim told her, either bragging or to explain how they bypassed all the patrons waiting at the bar.