Then I’d wanted to bend her over and take her on that desk.
I’d resisted both urges, based on the fact that she’d almost died and we hadn’t actually met yet. Plus, she’d seemed more like a girl you courted as opposed to just jumping her in her office. And as I’d stared into those jade eyes, I wanted to court the shit out of her. Flowers, chocolates, cheeseball mariachi bands, standing in the middle of the street and holding a freaking boom box over my head—whatever it took.
But she’d ruined it all when she’d opened her mouth.
My fingers tightened around the tumbler, the icy glass cooling the anger that flared in me. She’d actually yelled at me for saving her life. If her words hadn’t driven me from her office, the glares that conveyed she was better than me in every way would certainly have done it. Screw the boom box and the mariachi band. That chick needed an exorcist.
“Can I get a Jack and Diet Coke?”
I jerked my head at the familiar voice beside.
No. Fucking. Way.
Rachel leaned against the bar, her elbows pressed into the glass, backside raised as she called out her order. As if sensing I was there, she turned to find me staring at her. Her eyes widened in surprise, then shifted to amusement as she took in my collection of handbags and pineapple-draped cocktail glass. “Baxter Linton? What are you doing here? Please don’t tell me you’re stalking me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I dropped the purses onto the bar and rested the drink beside them. “I’m here on a date.”
She gestured to the bags. “With a harem?”
“It’s nice you think I could get a harem, but no.” I flicked my head to the dance floor. “The redhead over there in the purple dress.”
“The one dancing super close with the quarterback wannabe?”
I followed her gaze. Brittani had definitely become a “we” with a very large blond dude. The guy was so sturdy, he probably made walls jealous. “Yup. That’s her. As you can tell, we’re having the time of our lives.” Grabbing the sugary cocktail, I downed it in one gulp, cringing at the cold headache that followed. I pointed at my empty glass as the bartender dropped Rachel’s drink in front of her. “Another of whatever this is, please. It’s not half bad.”
“Well, that sucks,” Rachel said. “Even I’m classy enough to stay with the guy I came with. I tell him after if he was truly horrible and then lose his number, but still. A woman needs to have some tact. If you want, we can go out there and dance to make her jealous.”
I took in Rachel’s ensemble—a tight black skirt that showed off her tanned legs, and a low-cut red top that accented her other assets—and my mouth went dry at the thought of grinding up against that body. It was a tempting offer, but I couldn’t stop remembering how she’d treated me when I’d shown up at her office earlier. As hot as she was, there was no excuse for the way she’d talked to me.
The bartender brought me my drink, and I took another swallow, letting the ice cool me down as I considered her proposition. “Naw, I’m good. It’s been a long day. I think I’m going to pay for these ridiculous drinks and head home.” I tossed my credit card onto the bar and the bartender sauntered away with it. “What about you? You said you never leave a date, but you’re hanging out over here with me instead of whoever you came with. There’s no way someone like you came here alone.”
“Someone like me?”
“You know what I mean. You’re obviously the kind of girl who can get a date whenever she wants. I highly doubt you’d show up at the most popular place in town unescorted.”
She took a sip of her drink. “I’m here on business. One of my clients has been trying to get into this club since it opened, but the bouncer keeps refusing her entry. I gave her a bit of a makeover, flirted with the guy at the door, and now she’s making out with her dream dude in the corner over there. To another happy client.” Rachel toasted herself and downed the rest of the Jack and Diet Coke.
“Uh, sir?” Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find the bartender holding up my Visa, a frown on his chiseled face. “Your card was declined. Can you pay in cash?”
“What?” I fished in my pocket for my wallet. “It was? But I was sure there was enough on there. How much is it? I have like ten bucks on me.”
“The total for you and your party”—he gestured to Brittani and her friends—“is eighty dollars.”
“Eighty . . . ? Are freaking you kidding me? What did you put in those drinks? Liquid gold? I guess I could run down to the ATM—”
“Oh my God,” Rachel groaned. “I have it. Here. Charge it to me.” She held up a silver card.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, after the bartender had shuffled off to process her payment.
“I know. But I feel kinda bad about how I treated you today. I don’t think I thanked you for pulling me out of that window.”
“You didn’t.”
“Yeah, sorry. Being saved isn’t really something I’m used to. But you did save me.” She placed her palm next to mine, almost but not quite touching me. “So thank you.”
A small bandage lay across the wound on the back of her hand, and I brushed it gently. Her skin was soft as expensive silk beneath my fingers. “You’re welcome. How is your cut?”
She pulled away to grab the pen and bill from the bartender and signed with a flourish. “It’s fine. No infection or anything. I’ll live.”
As she signed, I glanced down at the credit card beside her. The raised letters below the number caught my attention. I grabbed it and studied the words closer. “Veronica Wilde? Wait, your name isn’t Rachel?”
“It changes for each job.” She snatched the plastic from me and tossed it into her purse. “Different names help me stay in character and maintain some anonymity. My client tonight thinks I’m Charlene.”
“But according to your credit card, your actual name is Veronica, unless you also steal identities for a living.”
She let out a breath. “Yes, but I’d prefer you keep that to yourself. I never give clients my real name. You seeing that card was an accident.”
“It doesn’t matter, though, since I’m not a client.”
“Right. About that . . .”
My phone vibrated against my hip and I reached into my pocket. “About what?”
“I didn’t really give you a chance to explain what you wanted. And when you said I wasn’t right for the job, anyway . . .” She straightened. “I can do any job a client throws at me, so you’re wrong about that. It’s been driving me crazy that you said that and I want to prove you wrong. But, you know, you have to be able to afford it. My services aren’t cheap.”
We both looked at my declined credit card, still on the bar, as useless as the discarded napkin beside it.
“Scott prepared me for the cost of your services, and I would’ve paid you in cash,” I said. “I have a bit of savings from—from an event that never happened. In fact, I’ll stop by your office tomorrow with the money for the bar tab. I don’t feel right letting you pay for it.”
“Honestly, it’s fine. After all, you stopped me from becoming another bird-murder victim.”
My lips twitched at her joke. “Still, I’d like to pay you back.”
And see you again.
My phone pulsed a second time, and I pried it from my pocket and frowned at the text blinking at me. “Shit. I have to go. My neighbor was watching my dog, and he took off. I’ve gotta go look for him.”
“Sure,” Veronica said. “I’m leaving, anyway. My work here is done. What are you going to do with all those bags?”
I grabbed the purses from the bar and shrugged. “I’ll let my ‘date’ take care of them. See ya later, Veronica Wilde.”
She flinched at my use of her real name, then shook her head. “’Bye, Baxter.”
Sweeping across the dance floor, I found Brittani�
�now fully making out with the football player–looking dude—and dropped the bags in a pile at her feet. The pair didn’t even part.
“Well, I’m heading out,” I shouted at the space between them. They moved closer together and I threw up my hands. “Okay, great. Had a fabulous time, Brit. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
She rammed her tongue down his throat in response.
The fall air was a blessing after the din of the hot club. I walked to the bus stop, gratefully breathing in something other than perfume and sweat. As I waited for the bus, I tapped my fingers against my thigh, anxious to get home so I could start the search for Ari. He’d run away a few times before, but he always came back. He was the one constant I could count on.
A silver car screeched to a stop in front of me and the window lowered. Veronica poked her head out. “Your dog is missing, and you’re waiting for the bus?!”
“I don’t have a car,” I said. “And this bus is usually pretty frequent. It’ll be here any minute.”
“Oh my God.” There was a click as she unlocked the doors. “Get in. I’ll drive you. It’s getting cold.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Hurry up, before I change my mind.”
“Thanks.” I hopped in the car and directed her to my neighborhood. She scrunched up her face when she realized I lived in one of the cheaper areas of town but thankfully kept her thoughts to herself.
As we neared my apartment, she slowed the car and peered around. “What type of dog is it?”
“Golden retriever. His name is Armani, but I call him Ari.”
“You named your dog after Giorgio Armani?” she asked.
“My ex did.”
Armani had been Clare’s idea. We’d gotten him when he was still a puppy, so small I could pick him up with one hand. Clare saw him in a shelter window and fell instantly in love. She had named him after one of her favorite designers and showered him with treats and toys. Boy, was she disappointed when I instantly became his favorite. I was the one he snuggled against in bed. The one he begged for walks and belly rubs. Eventually, I was the only one who fed him or changed his water dish.
When Clare had stormed out, she hadn’t even said good-bye to Ari. For his part, he barely noticed she was gone. Maybe he knew she was evil before I did. Dogs could sense things like that.
“Oh, right,” Veronica said. “The fashion designer.” She fished something out of her purse, keeping her eyes on my street. “I’m guessing this handkerchief belonged to her.”
I took the silk from her hand—freshly washed—and ran it between my fingers. “How did you guess?”
“The initials embroidered on it. C.L. Not yours.”
“It was going to be a gift for her on our wedding day. I had her initials—well, what would have been her initials after the wedding—etched on in blue. I thought it could be her something blue and something new.”
She turned the corner and pulled up beside a batch of trees, scanning the scenery. “Why didn’t you get married?”
“She just decided there was someone else she’d rather spend the rest of her life with.”
“Oh. Well, that sucks.” Veronica stopped the car. “Hey, is that your dog there?”
A flash of straw-colored fur confirmed her theory and I jumped out of the car. Ari barked and ran right to me when I called him, and I gripped him by the collar.
Veronica turned off the car and came around to us. She bent down and patted Ari on the head. “Hello there, Armani. What are you doing all the way out here?”
I started. “I didn’t peg you for a dog person. Or, you know, animals of any kind.”
“What gave you that impression?”
“Well, you were trying to murder a bird when I first met you.”
She straightened and placed a hand on her hip. “Hey, that jerk started it.”
“Whatever you say.” I rubbed behind Ari’s ears. “I should get this guy back inside. Thanks for the ride.”
“Yeah.”
She headed back to her car as I led my dog toward our apartment three doors down.
“Hey, Baxter?” Her voice halted us before we made it to the door. “You never told me what the job was. I have to admit, I’m curious as to what this thing is I cannot possibly do.”
I ran my fingers through my hair, studying her. She actually seemed sincere. “Fine,” I said with a sigh. “Come inside and I’ll show you, but I still think you’ll run away screaming.”
“Why?” She sauntered over to me, her heels clicking against the pavement. “Are you going to try to kill me or something?”
“Of course not. But . . . well, you’ll see.”
I unlocked the door and released Ari into the first-floor apartment I rented. He barked and ran into the kitchen, where his food dish lay. Veronica stood in the entrance, surveying the tiny place.
“It’s not much,” I said, “but it’s home. My office is at the end of that hall. I’m going to grab a beer. You want anything?”
“You got any whiskey?”
“No.”
“Then I’m fine.”
After I’d refilled Ari’s food dish and grabbed a beer from the fridge, I found her frozen in the center of my office. She stared at the chair in the corner, which had a pile of shirts filling the seat. The couch fared no better, with pants and socks hanging off the back.
“Sorry.” I grabbed the shirts and tossed them in a corner. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
She huffed. “Well, obviously.” I took a spot on the couch as she lowered herself into the chair, her eyes surveying the messy room. “This is why I make people come to my office.”
“Hey, I tried it your way. You spent the whole time telling me off. It’s not my fault you’re here now.”
“Fine.” She straightened her back and crossed her legs, the casual woman I’d met at the club disappearing beneath an all-business veneer. “So what is the job you need me to do? It better not be ‘maid,’ because I don’t clean.”
“God forbid you dirty the Chanel.”
Her eyes met mine. “I can get plenty dirty.”
I choked on my beer, sputtering the golden liquid down my white shirt. Grabbing a sock from the floor, I wiped at the spot, taking the opportunity to break from her gaze.
“So,” Veronica said, “can you explain the job before I catch whatever diseases this old chair probably carries?”
I tossed the damp sock into the corner and took a breath. “Okay, well, I invented something and I’m trying to get investors to buy it, but no one will take me seriously because I’m one guy and I have zero clout. Scott said you’re sort of an actress-for-hire. I was hoping you’d pretend to be my rich, business-savvy partner.”
Ari trotted next to her, turned in a circle, and laid his head on her foot. She reached down and stroked his fur. “And what exactly is this invention?”
“It’s easier to show you. Hang on.” I grabbed the gym bag from beside my desk and pulled out the blanket.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a blanket. For the homeless.”
Her eyebrows rose so high, they almost became one with her hairline. “Ummm . . . don’t they already have a bunch of blankets?”
“Yes, but this one is different.” I held it out to her, but she pressed into the back of the chair like I was offering her a bag of live spiders. “Look, here, see how it’s multilayered? It’s made in a way that someone could keep warm in even the coldest of temperatures.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Coffee grounds. I sewed them into the seams. Believe it or not, they bind to the fabric and keep wind out of the holes. The entire blanket is made of things I found around the apartment, and bound from scraps of materials Clare left behind and balls of cotton from the trash.”
“So
. . . you basically want the homeless to cover themselves in garbage? Don’t they already do that?”
I dropped onto the couch and laid the blanket across my lap. “You sound like every single investor I’ve met with. That’s not what this is. If you’d put it on, I guarantee you’d be sweating in seconds.”
“Yeah, ’cause it will probably give me malaria or something.”
“No. Because this thing is special. The first layer draws heat from your body, soaking it into the cotton, and the coffee grounds seal it in. The second layer—which is cut-up water bottles—blocks outside water and snow from getting near your skin. And the third layer, which includes plastic bags under this green, recycled cloth, keeps the wind out. It’s not made of garbage. It’s made of recycled materials. We have all these items we can’t break down and all these homeless people we need to protect from the elements. This solves both problems.”
“It’s made with water bottles? That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”
“They’re cut into small pieces, so it’s not as bad as you’d think. Besides, the aim isn’t comfort, it’s warmth.”
She trailed a nail down her tanned leg. “And why should I care about any of it? Homelessness isn’t my problem. Why would I want anything to do with fixing it?”
“Look, you can wish we didn’t have a problem with people living on the streets, but that’s something that’s not going to go away. Most of them are like you and me. They just had a bad set of problems that led them there. Homelessness can happen to anyone. Tomorrow, you could lose your business. What would you do for money then?”
“Fuck a billionaire and get him to buy me a place?”
I licked my lips. “Um, okay. Maybe that’s what you would do. But most people aren’t lucky enough to have your, er, talents. And there are only so many billionaires to go around. Just think, if the homeless had a way to keep warm in the winters, maybe they’d be healthier. They might be in better shape to apply for jobs or try to make things better for themselves. All they need is warmth, and a bit of hope.”
Dealing in Deception Page 4