She shrugged. “I’m lost. I have no idea how I find these insecure, egomaniac, rich people who won’t hide behind their own charity as a tax dodge.”
“Ah, but we do,” said Zeke.
“We’ll lend you some of ours.” Cal stood and picked up the coffee pot and poured for the three of them. “Let’s work on how you hook them.”
Fin picked up her cup and studied it. “Like I’m fishing.
“Exactly, except without an obvious rod or net. You’re trout tickling, catfish noodling.”
She gave a cartoonlike shake of her head. “Are those real things?”
“It’s the art of rubbing the belly of a fish, lulling it into a stupor, and then grabbing it for dinner.” If you tickled Cal’s soft spot for Fin, he’d have to fight not to roll over and let her do anything she wanted to him. “Right, now we flesh out your noodle,” Cal said, hiding his pleasure behind his coffee cup.”
“He’s being a dick, he means your pitch,” said Zeke.
Fin gave an exaggerated eye roll that moved her whole head. “No starting with a W word.”
“Or a question, or a sales spiel about the charity,” said Zeke. “And no statistics.”
“What do I say?”
“Start with flattery,” said Cal. That was what you did when you’d narrowed in on your mark and you knew how to make him preen. “An ego stroke.”
“Meaning I tell them how wonderful they are.” Fin frowned. “Compliment them, on what?”
“Watch this.” Cal swung his chair to face Zeke. “You’re selling. I’m some fat cat with a giant ego. Sway me.”
Fin interrupted. “But he doesn’t know anything about—”
Zeke put a hand up. “I know everything I need to know”—he pointed at Cal—“about Mr. Dickhead Fat Cat.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “Cal, heard you shot seventy-two at Winged Foot on the weekend. Superb job, man. Did you ever think of turning pro?”
“It was a good day.” Cal gave a dismissive hand wave. Next up, Zeke would as for a favor and the con would be live.
“You know I’d love to play there. Fantastic course, very difficult I’ve heard, but I’m not a member. Is there any way I could convince you to sign me in for a round?”
And there it was. “Any weekend you want to play, I’d be happy to sign you in.”
“That would make my year.” And now came the Rope. “You know, you’re a big charity supporter. I wanted to ask you a question about your philosophy. You see, I’ve started a charity. It’s this women’s thing.”
Fin bounced in her chair. “Women’s thing.”
Cal gave her a look that said behave.
Zeke cut back in. “I’m only getting started, and it’s quite a new idea.” That was the Tale and in a long con, that phase could go on for quite some time. “I’d love to have your thoughts.”
Cal strung some words together that sounded like he had thoughts and tried not to laugh at Fin’s befuddled expression. It didn’t matter what he said, Zeke would flatter him.
“I see that makes a lot of sense. Genius. I need to approach some potential donors. Can you think of anyone who’s not already organized like you are?”
“I’d be pleased to give you something.”
And now for the Convincer.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t ask you. You’ve got your own charity. I wouldn’t want to steal your focus away, but I’d be grateful for any guidance you had.”
“But I’d be happy to donate.”
“No, no. That’s too kind. I couldn’t take your money.”
“What’s wrong with my money?”
Zeke laughed. “Nothing, but I don’t want to bother you.”
Cal said, “But I insist,” and then said to Fin, “That’s part one.”
She pulled at an earlobe as if she’d had trouble hearing. “I don’t understand what happened there.”
“Zeke flattered me about my golf game, and then he asked me for something insignificant that made me feel benevolent. Then he flattered me again by asking for advice.”
“But then he tried to stop you donating.”
“Watch what happens in part two,” said Zeke. He turned to Cal. “I’ll certainly take a donation if you insist.”
“What level of donation are you looking for?”
“I do declare, I’m embarrassed to name it,” Zeke said. He was one big clown. “You truly don’t have to do this. But I’m looking for twenty-five thousand apiece from initial donors.”
Fin made a choking sound.
“That’s not an issue.” Cal picked up his cell and mimed a transaction. “Here, I’m transferring the money now. In fact, I’ll give you a little more than you asked for, thirty-five thousand.”
“Ah, Cal. I can’t thank you enough. You’re now a first bronze-level donor.”
And that was the Breakdown. “Bronze.” He said it as though the concept was an affront.
“Yes, the gold level asking price is one hundred and fifty thou.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
“I didn’t want to presume. You have other concerns.”
“But I agreed this is great cause.” And now for the Send and the Touch.
Zeke said, “Seriously, you’ve done enough.”
“No, look, here’s another one fifty kay, and really, it’s a great cause. I’m proud to be a gold donor.”
And there was the Fix.
When he turned again, Fin had slid down in her chair so her chin was almost level with the table. “You guys are trolling me.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s an act you have for gullible, wannabe charity hopefuls like me.” She shifted upright. “That was all backwards and upside down. Zeke didn’t know anything about D4D to sell it, and you didn’t ask any questions, and then you argued. This is some kind of sideshow act for you both.”
She was upset, and Cal almost laughed. He’d forgotten how foreign this would be to someone from the outside. He walked around the table and sat beside her, and when she didn’t swivel her chair to face him, he gave it a nudge and watched as her feet firmed on the floor so she stayed facing Zeke.
“It won’t work exactly like that for you in the beginning,” said Zeke. “But we promise it will work for your charity.”
She’d need a spotter like real catfish noodlers used. Someone to point out the trout, make introductions, smooth the way. Cal would be her spotter, bring her the big fish, help her land them, and protect her from uglier predators. And it would be another test for what he could make of Finley Cartwright.
But she wasn’t buying.
Yet.
“It was so boys’ club and superficial and manipulative.”
“It’s a formula, and it’s surprisingly sophisticated.” Cal looked at Zeke. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”
Zeke stood. “Fin, it was great to meet you. I hope to hear you’ve made a lot of mothers and daughters happy.” He left, and still Fin wouldn’t look at Cal.
“You’re mad at me.”
“You’re a psychic.” She wouldn’t see his grin, which was just as well—she wouldn’t like it. “Can you see the future, too?”
He nudged her chair again, and this time she let him turn it. She looked like someone stole her Christmas. “I can see the future.”
“You think you can teach me how to pitch like that.”
“I know I can.”
“It seemed…I don’t know, fake, deceitful.”
“No one was deceived. Zeke got what he needed, and I was willing to give.”
Fin rubbed her forehead. “I thought it would be different. I thought I’d have a script with certain trigger words or phrases, and you’d coach me in how to deliver it.”
“Every con—” He coughed to cover that flub and started again. “Every conversation will be a little different, but it will follow the same basic formula. You’ll approach a well-researched target. You’ll engage their interest, you’ll flatter, you’ll ask for something sm
all, which they’ll agree to. It might be as insignificant as holding your glass while you adjust something on your dress.” Yes, that would work well for her with men—draw attention to her body.
“You’ll rope them in, tell your story, convince them they’ll be missing out if they aren’t involved, and then close the sale. Later, when you get comfortable, you can up the stakes like we did and,” he almost said trick, but went with the word she’d already used, “manipulate your target into giving you a higher amount than they first agreed to.”
Downcast was not an expression that suited Fin. And it didn’t sit well with him that he’d put that somber look in her eyes, that upside-down arc in her lips. He needed to see her smile again. “And yes, you can have a script. In fact, it’s a good idea.”
He leaned over the table and hit the console. “Camille, would you bring my laptop please?” He turned back to Fin. “Let’s write you a script. You’re going to need to know it by heart by Friday night.”
“Friday night?”
“It’s in the future,” he said, when he’d see how bright she could shine.
Chapter Seven
Fin opened the door to Lenny, took the garment bag out of her arms, and put a wine glass in her hand.
“Where is that ugly cat?” Lenny asked, one foot over the threshold, casting her eyes about.
Fin glanced over her shoulder for Scungy. “Don’t call him that. He’s very sensitive about his looks.”
Lenny stepped inside and went straight for the open wine bottle. “If he was sensitive about his looks, why did you give him the weird name?
“I thought it meant something else.”
Lenny sat on Fin’s one decent chair. “What does it mean?”
An Australian she’d shot a Febreze commercial with told her it was slang for heroic. “It means scuzzy.” But he didn’t tell her that until Scungy was answering to the name as best a cat with serious socialization issues could.
Lenny gulped her wine, then coughed. “I was going to call you a sap, but someone whose whole life has been a lie should keep her thoughts to herself. Tell me again what this thing on Friday is?”
“Art exhibition. Something, something retrospective, where rich people congregate richly.”
“The Remy D’Cartan Retrospective.”
“That’s him.”
“Her.”
“I’m not going for the art. I’m going to fleece the rich people.” And Fin would be going in her underwear if there was nothing in Lenny’s garment bag that fit. Fin didn’t own retrospective-ready, rich-people-fleecing clothing.
“And you’re going with Cal Sherwood, as like what, a date?”
She unzipped the bag, and it revealed several natural wonders in silk and floaty fabrics. “No. He was very clear it was not a date in the traditional sense of maybe I’ll get laid. But he is sending a car, and he’s going to spot for me.”
There were shoes, too, and a soft jewelry pouch, and no one had ever sent a car for her.
“Spot?”
Fin held up a full-length, creamy-colored dress that was slashed to the waist at the back. “He spots. I noodle.”
Lenny guzzled. “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds bedroomy.”
“I wish. He’s going to introduce me around so I can use the new pitch.” The next dress was red, strapless, divine.
“It’s a huge improvement on barstool bingo.”
The third dress was a yellow, one-shoulder affair. “I am coming up in the world. And that stunt paid our rent.” But that dress, she’d stand out like a sunrise, and that was a little too bold for her first big A-list outing.
“I know. I’m amazed at what you’ve done.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” It felt good to be able to say that. It might even be true. The final dress was Tiffany aqua. It had a fitted bodice that was beaded and a softly falling, pleated skirt. This was the dress, if it fit. “We’re going to be all right. I wish you could’ve heard Cal. He seems to think money is going to fall in my lap.”
“I still don’t understand why he’s helping.”
Neither did Fin. “He wants in my pants.”
“He took your pants to a hotel and left them on you.”
Which did weaken the in-her-pants theory, but she was sticking with it. The way he looked at her, all want to get to know you and I know what you taste like. She had to bite back a groan.
“There are silver heels and drop earrings, and if you pile your hair up, that will look amazing on you.”
Fin pulled her tee over her head and turned her back to Lenny to shuck her shorts, ditch her bra, and pull the aqua dress gently over her head. “What won’t be amazing is if I flub my pitch. I don’t know how many other chances there will be to rub shoulders with the right people.” It fit, but it was so low cut you could probably see what she’d had for breakfast.
She turned to Lenny. “Too much me?”
“Looks amazing. Try the shoes.”
Lenny’s shoes would probably pinch. She turned them over; the red sole was unscuffed. “These have never been worn.” And the thing digging into her underarm was the sales tag of the dress.
Lenny refilled her glass. “I thought I was going to lose some weight. I’ve worn the shoes once, but indoors. Keep the whole outfit if you like it.”
She loved it. She couldn’t keep it. The price of the dress alone was gag inspiring. She forced her feet into the shoes. A half-size bigger would’ve been better. “You’ll wear them again.”
Lenny groaned. “There aren’t any social invitations for anyone with the surname Bradshaw coming any time soon.” She sighed. “Or maybe ever again.”
“But you’ll be Lenore Bradshaw, successful charity maven, and everyone will want to know you.” Fin opened her arms; the dress swished around her knees; the earrings bobbed against her neck; the shoes pinched. “And I’ll be Finley Cartwright, someone who drinks champers at social events and makes rich men give her money without her dignity being compromised.”
“Not even if Cal makes a pass at you?”
“If Cal makes a pass at me, all bets are off. But he won’t. As in explicitly said he won’t. We’re to be strictly professional, and I need to respect that because he’s the money train.”
Cal would wear a tux. He’d look amazing in a tux, and he’d do that thing where a man hovered his hand at the small of your back, not touching, shepherding, guarding, ready to stop you from embarrassing yourself if you couldn’t walk in your shoes. She might not be able to get the Manolos off, and respect was a bitch.
“And that sucks because you’re into him.”
“Sucks sour lemons because have I told you how he’s grumpy but complex and suave and smart and his voice is programmed to make me weak and his eyes are so blue it’s like you can see his soul?”
“This is only the fourth or fifth time.”
Rare to meet a man she liked enough to want to be intimate with after Win, and she had to go meet one who wanted to support her ambition more than he wanted to plow her. “Really sucks.”
Fin had to push Lenny out because she needed to scrape and primp and preen and fix her hair and cut the tag out of the dress and remember that she had no perfume and be pissed about the fact there was no time to drop into Sephora to snitch a sample. But damn, she looked good. Scrubbed up right fine for someone who was last at the Met as wait staff.
Cal’s driver called on arrival and was at the curb out front when Fin got downstairs. It was hard not to feel self-conscious getting in the black town car and then not to feel disappointed that she was alone. Cal never said he’d be in the car, but he never said he wouldn’t be, either, and she’d already learned that it was good for her mental health to listen carefully to what he said.
At the Met, there was a red carpet. This is what happened when you entered by the front door, not the service entrance. She walked that carpet as if it was delivering her to the One Hundredth Academy Awards instead of what’s-her-name’s art retrospect
ive, but there was no one to see her strut her stuff and no Cal hovering in the foyer, either.
She showed the invitation card and made her way to the American Wing, taking the first glass of champagne offered and trying not to geek out. This was her Cinderella moment. It was time to go find her prince before her feet started swelling in her half-size-too-small, borrowed shoes, but she froze up, couldn’t leave the safety of the periphery of the room where the staff came and went.
Cal found her. He came up behind her, his fingertips to the small of her back, and said her name in her ear, sending a shower of sprinkles down her spine. “You’re beautiful.” In this moment, she was made of air and sparks.
He didn’t say she looked beautiful, but that she was. She’d been assessed for beauty and passed over too many times to think his compliment was anything more than Cal being urbane and charming and Lenny’s dress working wonders. Still, she liked hearing it, and she didn’t turn to look at him for fear he’d render her solid matter again. “It’s all borrowed.”
“As all glamor is. Beauty is an entirely different matter.”
That snagged her breath. He was so, so dangerously charming. Even without turning, she was swamped by his presence. The midnight of his suit, a flash of stark white shirt front and cuffs. He smelled amazing, citrus and warm spice. She wanted to lean into him, knowing he’d hold her upright.
“You’re going to be fine, Finley. It’s a performance, nothing more.”
It wasn’t the room with its army of penguin suits and swirls of brilliant color that was testing her now—it was the man. She gave him a Marilyn quote because she didn’t have any of her own words available.
“I don’t know if high society is different in other cities, but in Hollywood, important people can’t stand to be invited someplace that isn’t full of other important people. They don’t mind a few unfamous people being present, because they make good listeners.”
The terror was that she was the unfamous and Cal wanted her to talk.
“You’ll be famous before the night is out.”
Now she turned to him. “I don’t want to be famous. I’m in over my head. You really think I can go in there and talk rich people I don’t know into giving me money?”
One Night Wife (Confidence Game) Page 6