One Night Wife (Confidence Game)

by Ainslie Paton

  “An aspiring one, aren’t you, Finley?”

  She’d show him aspiring. She gave him her middle finger. Then, she wove her way back to the bar, checked Win was watching, tapped sexy ass, jerkwad Caleb Sherwood on the shoulder, and held her breath. He said he could help, but she didn’t know if he meant it. When he swung around, and his handsome face crinkled into a big, what-can-I-do-for-you smile, she threw her arms around his neck and said, “Roll with it.”

  Right before she kissed him.

  Chapter Two

  Cal had been kissed a lot of times in his life. Occasionally without much warning, but never like this. He’d been pleased to see her, but he bit his own tongue when Finley Cartwright pressed her mouth against his. She’d been an amusing diversion, had stopped him brooding, and now she was attached to his lips and he didn’t hate it.

  Roll with it, she’d said. Something he never did, because spontaneity was risky, but Finley surprised him and that rarely happened. Until she brought her face close, he’d had no idea what the it was. Turns out it was soft, warm, and thrilling.

  He kissed Finley back and wrapped his arms around her, one hand going to her ass, so he could align their bodies better. That one unexpected kiss rolled into something a whole lot hotter and wilder, especially as she made a little squeak he took to mean she wasn’t hating this, either, and opened her lips, so he got a taste of her. She was alcohol and bravery with a hint of a giggle that she subverted to angle her head while she pushed her fingers into his hair.

  Jesus, he hadn’t been kissed like this ever. He was thirty-five years old, and he couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been aware a woman wanted to kiss him or slap him like Rory had done earlier, which was why he was in the Blarney with a stinging cheek, trying to drown his bad mood in the first place.

  He’d thought Finley wanted to poke his eyes out with his own business card, and he’d have deserved that, like he deserved Rory’s anger. Instead, she’d come back with the devil in her eyes and a sexy proposition on licked wet lips and now she was in his arms making cute little grunts and going after his tongue. And he was letting her, both of them dedicated to working each other over, making out in public like teenagers.

  “What’s this about?” he said, when they broke for air. He felt things he struggled to name. Attraction certainly, but he’d felt that the moment she’d climbed on that barstool, shaking and trying not to show it. There was an electric current running up his spine, but that was lust. It was the fluttering that was new. Across his chest and down his arms, an itch that wasn’t, a jittery feeling, along with a color explosion in his head. He’d been kissed more expertly; he’d been loved with more skill. What he felt now was shock.

  And he’d thought that capacity had been trained out of him.

  “For a power jerk, you know how to kiss.”

  What did she call him? He didn’t care as long as he could have her mouth, and she gave it. The quick thud of his heart blocked out the voices in the bar, and the flashes behind his closed eyes lighting up all his senses were addictively good.

  He had a handful of her hair, satin and chocolate. “Want to take this somewhere?”

  She kissed a yes into his mouth, and they were hand in hand, threading their way out of the pub. And then they were on the pavement, still connected, but the rest of the world was back in place: cars, people, the night thick with movement. Whatever this magic was it wouldn’t survive the intrusion of reality. Cal wasn’t sure he wanted it to. It felt dangerous. It was reckless. Potentially injurious to his health.

  Regardless, he followed when Fin tugged on his hand, let her pull him into an alleyway, push him back against the bricks between two dumpsters. He laughed, grabbing for her, enjoying her mouth and getting his hands all over her.

  His suit wasn’t meant for rough walls. He didn’t, as a rule, do things like this with women he didn’t know. It was slightly unhinged and manically hot. He didn’t care about the dumpsters or the stickiness underfoot or that rancid cabbage smell. He cared about getting more of her mouth and her skin and her hands and the way she hooked her fingers into the waist of his pants to lever herself closer; the way she groaned when he dragged her body up against his dick and fought him for control of their kisses.

  Who are you, Finley Cartwright? He didn’t get to have dangerous in his life, not the way normal people would define it. He was a cautious man who took extraordinary risks professionally, and she was altering his perception of what being alive felt like. And that could get him maimed. “Stop.”

  She dropped her forehead to his chest. “Please don’t make me.”

  “Finley. We need to take this somewhere else.”

  “Oh.” She lifted her chin. “Yes, please. I want this.”

  “It’s not—” He ran out of sentence because she looked at him as if she might die if he didn’t kiss her again, so he kissed her again, damsel in distress and all, and she moaned her satisfaction. He wanted this, too, but not here. “Let’s go.”

  He took her hand again, searched her eyes for anything that would tell him where this madness was coming from and how to survive it.

  “My place is close,” she said.

  He wouldn’t go to her place or take her to his. He took her across the road to the Governor Hotel, out of the dark and into the light of the polished reception. She might balk; it was very real world to be standing in the foyer of a hotel checking in with a man you didn’t know and no luggage.

  While the clerk ran his card, he tipped her face up and searched her eyes. “You’re sure?”

  “My family will come after you if you hurt me.”

  Her family was no doubt happily suburban, but maybe there was a cop or two in the mix.

  She was an outsider. It was insane to do this without knowing. Sherwood had strict rules about outsiders. If you weren’t one of the four founding families: a Sherwood, an Archer, a Robins, or a Johns, you were an outsider and you never got to hear the truth. This didn’t exactly break the rules, but it wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done. “I stand warned.”

  “I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”

  Not the way she might be concerned, at least. But he’d hurt Rory in a hundred ways he hadn’t intended; he was overridden with the guilt of that.

  “You’re safe with me. But if you want, you should phone a friend and tell them where we are. You have my card still. Give them my name and details.”

  More than the way he’d handled her body, taken her mouth, brought her here, that made her pause, and as the clerk handed over two room pass cards, he saw it—uncertainty washed over her eyes, settled like a crust of salt at a tide line to mark the point where hesitancy warred with desire.

  He should say goodbye, let her have the suite for the night, go home and hope she forgot him, but he wasn’t ready to sever the connection, even if it meant not touching her again.

  Since Rory left, he’d been lonely for the company of women. Not three hours ago, she’d reappeared in his life and shown him with a well-placed wallop that six months hadn’t been enough time for her to recover from their breakup.

  Finley Cartwright might be the diversion he needed, but his heart was heavy, and the timing was off.

  “Are you hungry? I was thinking we could order room service and work on your pitch.”

  “My pitch.” Her tone was a hiccup of surprise that kicked up a bunch of octaves. It made him smile.

  “It’s not a euphemism. We got carried away. It might make sense to slow down.” Saying that made him feel like a heel. She was revved up and willing, and he wanted her, and they were both unattached adults. “Are you hungry?” Where exactly was his survival sense if he did this?

  “I’m starving.”

  “You can eat and tell me what started all this.”

  “You’re sorry.” She turned her head and looked out to the street. “I should go. I forced myself on you.”

  No sense at all. “I liked it.” Maybe there was a full moon.

  He
saw the sly smile curve her cheek in profile. “You did.” A confirmation, not a question.

  “Very much. Come and eat with me. Tell me about Finley Cartwright.”

  She gave him her hand. “If you’ll tell me about Caleb Sherwood.”

  He’d tell her what he could afford to.

  They rode the elevator hand in hand, and when he opened the door to the suite, she gave a whoop that made him think of kids at a fun fair. “This is lavish.”

  He held the door open for her to walk inside. “Only the best for women who accost me in Irish pubs.”

  “I didn’t accost you.”

  He closed the door but didn’t bolt it and followed her into the room. “What would you call it?”

  She stood in the little sitting room area. He’d done terrible things to her hair. “Ravish. I ravished you,” she said.

  And goddamn, that had felt good, pit of the stomach, spine electrified good. “You did.”

  She fanned her face. “I think you ravished me back. I didn’t expect that.”

  He looked her over, made no attempt to veil his interest. “You’re difficult to resist.” He had the urge to do rude, wonderful things to her for as long as his body would hold out.

  “Me?” Hands to her hips. “Or are you saying any woman who accosts you in an Irish pub with a ravishing in mind would be hard to resist?”

  “It’s a tough question.” He took his suit coat off; it would need dry-cleaning. He flung it over a chair. Let her sweat on his answer. She’d damn well made him sweat.

  “Oh for God’s sake, play along,” she said, exasperation in her laughter.

  “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?”

  She looked around the suite. “You sure know how to up the stakes.”

  “Which is why I’m calling room service.” He was calling room service mostly because he liked the thread of sexual tension spooled out between them a little too much. It wasn’t a substitute for sex, but it was equally pleasurable. “What can I get you?”

  She took up the hotel services guide. “I’m broke. I can’t pay for this.”

  “This is my treat.”

  “A business expense?”

  “You’re not business.”

  “I thought we were going to work on my pitch.”

  There was a possibility that would happen. He should insist it happen, but he’d rather work on Finley Cartwright than her pitch, unless her pitch was throaty groans in his ear.

  She wasn’t traffic-stopping beautiful in a femme fatale way like Rory. Didn’t have the same fireball personality. Fin was your best friend’s little sister all grown up and making trouble. She was that quiet girl in the office who got plastered that one time and danced like she knew things. The spunky wallflower at the party who turned out to have a devastating personality and an original wit. She was a woman you’d watch simply to see what she did next. Lovely, but not intimidating. Attractive enough to make you look twice, and thoroughly, when she called attention to herself. Making you wonder how you managed to ignore her before.

  “We’re going to work on your pitch.”

  “Can I have the steak sandwich?”

  He ordered two with fries, added blueberry-apple pie and cream, and a pot of coffee, while she explored the suite, going into the bathroom and exclaiming over whatever product they had available.

  “I’m stealing these,” she called.

  “It’s not theft. I paid for them.”

  “It feels like theft. I don’t know why. I know hotels are okay about you taking this stuff, but it feels like a guilty pleasure.”

  Ah, this woman had no idea about guilt or pleasure or the way the combination of the two was the reason Cal got up mornings and went to work.

  She came out of the bathroom, hands to her hair, trying to tame it. She looked at the bed. He’d purposely stayed away from it.

  “I’d like to see what happens when we kiss again.” The hesitancy he’d seen in her in the foyer was still there, but she was fighting it.

  He circled behind her and took one of the easy chairs. “What was happening when we kissed the first time?” He didn’t like not knowing what the source of this chemical explosion between them was. If he didn’t know better, couldn’t read her, he’d think he was being played.

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  “I’ve been hard since then.”

  “Oh.” She turned to face him. “Ohh. As I was leaving, my ex was coming into the Blarney with his new fiancée. The one he was seeing when he was sleeping with me. I refuse to remember her name, but it’s probably Madison.”

  “Provocation.”

  She frowned. “He’s rich, smug, and superior.”

  “He humiliated you.” The Motivation.

  She nodded. “I didn’t want him to know I was alone.” The Set Up.

  “So, you picked me to hit on.” The Distraction.

  “It was either you or throw myself over the bar at Liam. I didn’t have the gymnastics in me, and he needs that job.”

  “I was the easier mark.” She was playing him, but it was completely innocent; shouldn’t have been a blood-rushing turn-on. Blood was rushing.

  “Exactly.”

  Finley Cartwright, junior con artist, all around surprise package, an utterly delightful, unexpected intrusion with a soft-serve of the unfamiliar.

  She took the chair beside him but looked at the carpet. “That sounds bad.”

  It sounded like the truth. There was another truth, at least for Cal—he wasn’t finished with what happened when they kissed. “I like kissing you.”

  “I like kissing you.”

  And here they were in a suite with a king-size bed, exclusive take-home toiletries, and room service at the door. And the problem with that was Cal had seen enough of Fin to know he liked all of her, to know he could hurt her far more easily than he’d hurt Rory, because Fin couldn’t know the truth about him.

  Inconvenient time to grow a conscience.

  The steak sandwiches were good; they added Coke from the bar fridge and talked. Fin talked—Cal asked questions and shared enough for her to be comfortable, more than he normally would, because the smug ex who’d pushed her into his arms was on his mind.

  “I have a sister, Caroline. She’s two years younger,” Fin said. “There’s hair pulling. Mom is a teacher. Dad runs a tire fitting franchise. Caroline is like Dad. Organized, methodical, disciplined.”

  “She sounds monstrously boring.”

  Fin took the bait. “She is.”

  “Which makes you the artistic one.”

  She tilted her head and placed the back of her hand on her forehead; a mock swoon. “Can’t imagine why you’d say that.”

  He dug her playfulness. “I think it came to me when you stood on that stool.”

  “I was being organized, methodical, and disciplined. And you, Cal Sherwood. Tell me about your family.”

  “It’s large, cumbersome, awkward, and demanding. I have two brothers and two sisters, and more extended family than should be legal. My great-grandfather started Sherwood. My dad retired five years ago, and I’ve been running the firm since.”

  “Do you like running the show?”

  Odd she’d use that term, because it was a show. “Most days.” Some days, he longed for a less stressful existence. “Do you like standing on barstools pitching your heart out?”

  She packed the detritus of their meal up, loaded it back on the tray it’d come delivered on. Stalling. “No. Yes. It wasn’t meant to be like that. I wanted to be an actor, but I’m not doing that anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Tell me one embarrassing thing about you and I’ll share.”

  While he thought about something safe to tell her, Fin pushed the meal cart to the door and out into the corridor.

  There was the time his fake mustache melted off his face. That was when the mark’s dog almost gave him away. There was the time he’d miscalculated the stupidity of his host and had to exit over rooftops ins
tead of the front door. And the time he nearly starved on a cult takedown, though that was less embarrassing than it was downright life-threatening. There were also a dozen entertaining stories he could tell from his formative years in training.

  “I let my last girlfriend think we were going to be forever.” Shit, what was wrong with him? Honesty, outside of the extended family, made his teeth hurt. Yes, he’d wanted to say something revealing to encourage Fin to do the same, but he was self-sabotaging with this woman and for what reason?

  She stopped in the middle of her journey back to him. “Now you’re sorry you kissed me. Why did you let her think that?”

  “I’m not a good man.”

  She took the seat again, but her posture was kinked away from him.

  “I love her, and we worked well together, but I wasn’t in love with her.” He put his hand over his cheek where Rory’s slap had landed. Did that sound as ridiculous as he felt saying it? Judging by the look on Fin’s face, absolutely, yes. “Difficult to explain.” Not sure why he was even attempting to. He hadn’t gotten any sympathy inside the family; what made him think it might be different with Fin?

  “I wish you could, because that’s what my ex said to me.” She coughed, sat straighter, and dropped her voice low. “You’re lovely, Finley. But I don’t love you enough to build a future with you.” She collapsed back into the seat. “He wants to be friends,” she said in her regular voice, smothering the sentence in contempt. “The fiancée is very shiny.” She waved her hands around. “Hair, skin, eyes, lips, and she’s as filthy rich and privileged as he is.”

  “And you want him to fall through a crack in the earth.”

  “Or at least be jealous when I kiss another man.” She sagged like her bones had called it quits. “I’m pathetic.”

  “I had a confrontation with my ex this afternoon.” Rory’s handiwork had faded to nothing, and oddly, that gave him a pang of regret. “That’s why I was in the pub.”

  “You argued.”

  “She argued my face deserved slapping, and she won her case.”

  “My ex’s name was Win—not short for anything. I was always called Fin growing up, but we couldn’t be Fin and Win, that was too awful. I essentially changed my name for a guy who cheated on me.”