It wouldn’t all happen tonight, but tonight was the first step.
He gave up watching out the window and looked at Fin. She was truly beautiful to him, even as concern streaked over her features.
“You drifted away,” she said.
He shook his head. “Thinking about what I need from tonight.”
“I won’t let you down.”
There was more of convincing herself in that than him. He twisted to face her. “You’d have to shoot someone to let me down, and depending on who you shot, it might make my week.”
“Now you tell me.” She held up a tiny purse that matched her shoes that would’ve cost him a packet. “I need to size up if I’m going to carry.”
He was still laughing when the car stopped, and he unclipped his seatbelt, opened the door and got out, reaching back for Fin’s hand, grateful for her humor.
She looked up at the apartment building. “Lights, camera, action.” She squeezed his hand. “Remember the cue for pretend you don’t know me?” After lie detection, she’d learned about cueing, the secret instructions they’d give each other to communicate what they couldn’t say in words.
“Is that the one where I pinch your ass?”
She laughed. “You pinch any part of me in there, I’ll tell everyone you wet the bed at night and not in a sexy way.”
He looped her hand over his crooked arm. “See how brilliantly mutually dependent we are.” He quirked his head towards the building. “Let’s do this.”
“Holy shit,” she said under her breath when the elevator opened on the Langleys’s penthouse and the assembled guests. Cal didn’t know if that was because it was the height of old world luxury, or because they were thrust into the mix of greetings and welcomes without a pause. He kept Fin close, doing the introductions, laughing as Bette Langley patted Fin’s hand.
“You look like someone Cal can enjoy himself with. It’s about time he hooked up again. That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Bette said.
In Bette’s day, it was no sex before marriage, and Eisenhower was President. She was eighty-nine years old, could pass for sixty because her surgeon was good. This was her seventieth wedding anniversary dinner.
Cal liked Bette as much as he liked Clement, her ninety-two-year-old husband. They were good people, generous, but blind to a fault about their only son, Ronald, who Cal had been able to con time and time again. Ronald would lose money on Everlasting, and maybe this time, he’d actually notice. It was Ronald who was friends with the whales Cal was most interested in: John Alington, Pat McGovern, Keith Belling, and Arthur Lowenstein.
Fin had experienced Alington already, as they were leaving the retrospective. She now knew how often he’d intimidated and silenced women he’d sexually abused, but this was her first experience with the other three.
He maneuvered Fin to Arthur Lowenstein’s side, opening the conversation by introducing Fin to Arthur and his wife Theodora and telling them they’d missed a great night at the retrospective.
“I have to say, I didn’t really get a lot of it,” Fin said. “I’m more into ballet.” Her throat contracted on that lie, but no one other than Cal would notice, and it was a scripted line predicated to endear her to Theodora.
“We’re patrons of the New York Ballet,” the painfully thin Theodora said.
It was a sore point with her husband, who no doubt would’ve preferred that money to go into campaign contributions to candidates who would help him keep the wages he paid the workers in his national restaurant chain at the bare minimum. Lowenstein was worth billions, but he stiffed his workers and his suppliers and paid the smallest amount of tax possible.
“We give like there’s no tomorrow,” said Arthur. It wasn’t meant to be funny, and it was the prompt Cal had hoped for.
“Don’t say that, you’ll have Fin hitting on you. She’s started a microfinance charity.”
Theodora turned away, already bored now that the attention was off her.
“How do you like to be hit on, Arthur?” Fin asked, with a hip shift that drew his eyes.
He frowned. “Preferably not before dinner. Keen to talk to your man here about other business first,” he said dismissively.
Cal gave Fin the cue to interrupt. He wanted to starve Lowenstein of contact. Exactly his strategy for John Alington, as well. “Cal, before you talk business would you mind pointing me to the powder room,” she said.
He gave Arthur a nod, “Duty calls,” and got satisfaction from seeing the man’s jaw go tight as he led Fin away.
They played out a similar scene with the McGoverns. Pat was a Wall Street Banker with the restraint of a stabbed bull and the morals of a Viking marauder. Pat liked to humiliate his wives and daughters. He was on wife number five. She was Hungarian, a statuesque beauty whose exploration of surgery had left her looking bewildered.
Pat was offhand with Cal, but he enjoyed bantering with Fin. If Fin were Rory, Cal would’ve stepped away, but he wasn’t ready to abandon her to these piranhas. This was only a first blooding.
Right before they took their seats for the meal, Fin touched his elbow from behind, two quick taps, which told him she wanted to talk. He let the other guests move around them until they were alone.
“I haven’t made any money yet. What did I do wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.” He rubbed a hand down her arm to her hand, and she shivered. “We haven’t gotten to the main course yet. Trust me.”
She grunted. He said those cheesy words to make her do that. She crossed her eyes and made a face at him, and that was a bonus reaction. People who attended private, catered parties in Fifth Avenue penthouses didn’t make goofy faces before they sat down to fine dining with the moneyed elite.
“Did your mother never tell you the wind might change, and you’ll stay like that?”
“No,” she sucked in her cheeks. “But several casting consultants said I should consider structural alterations.”
He stepped in closer, took her other hand, and her eyes flared wide. “They fucked up wanting you to be like everyone else.” And he’d fucked up, too. He’d almost kissed her, and though he was allowed to touch her with affection for show, he couldn’t let that happen in private and not want to scrub out every line he’d drawn between them.
Fin was a tool to be used, kept sharp and cared for, aimed with precision and then shelved when she was no longer needed. If he let things get personal, that clear agenda would get screwed up.
The main course was beef, if you wanted to focus on the food. Otherwise, it was Cal’s instigated discussion about the wonders of gene therapy and the brave new world it would usher in, a life free of disease and premature aging for those who could afford it.
Fin trod on his foot when Lowenstein asked, “That start-up you’ve got going, room for me?”
“Looks like we’re going to be oversubscribed,” Cal said.
“You’re a scurvy pirate, Sherwood,” said Alington. “We’ll have words after dinner.”
“You got me a piece, didn’t you?” asked Ronald. His allocation was worth nearly a million and a half in Cal’s account and worth nothing to Ronald, much like the last three investments he’d made in Cal’s fake companies.
“You’re in,” he said, which would guarantee pressure from the others, because the one thing they all agreed on was that Ronald was a well-connected dunce, and if Ronald had a slice of the mystical pie, then they weren’t about to be denied.
With that set piece complete, Cal could relax and enjoy the speeches. He drank half a glass of wine, and Fin leaned in, hand to his chest for balance, and whispered. “Is the deal really oversubscribed, or was that you being a manipulative son of a bitch?”
“Don’t insult my mom, and eat your anniversary cake,” he said, his breath making her hair stir. “That was me making sure you got donations tonight.”
She moved back into her own seat and forked her cake. “You are all kinds of strange and wonderful.”
She saw exactly how
strange his world could be when the women left the table so the men could smoke cigars with their brandy and Arthur Lowenstein broke ranks to track her down. When Arthur returned to the table he said, “Helped your girl out. Gave her a little present.”
“That’d be the same as giving her half of Manhattan, coming from you,” Cal responded and got the amused laughter he expected. Before his Cuban was a smoky stump, Pat McGovern had become a D4D donor. Two whales, two favors. But John Alington was stewing, and Keith Belling, the largest whale in this school, was keeping his own counsel.
Roping Belling and conning him would be the move that restored Cal’s fortune. But he’d never done business with the man known for his lack of conversation and his oil and gas wealth. Belling was currently embroiled in a fight to run a pipeline through a native Indian reservation.
What a guy.
Belling was also a climate change denier, and that put him on Mom’s shit list. Cal had stayed away from him to date, but he was diabetic and that was leverage. Gene therapy—the real thing—might be able to cure diabetes one day. The make-believe kind Cal was peddling could cure it any minute now.
Belling heard that message over dinner. And that was enough of a crumb dropped for one night.
From where Cal sat, he could see Fin in the other room. When he made deliberate eye contact, he expected a smile, but she gave him the earlobe pull cue for “are you okay?” That she was at ease enough to check on him made him smile into his brandy snifter. He repeated the motion in answer and failed to hide his smile when she failed spectacularly not to hide hers.
“Haven’t you fucked that girl yet?” said Alington.
Cal raised a brow at him. It got a laugh, and it curdled in his stomach.
“What’s this charity she’s got going?”
He put his glass down. “Microfinance.” He knew Alington didn’t want any details. “If you kick her something, it’s going to get me laid with extra vigor tonight.”
That got a bigger laugh, because it was the kind of thing they wanted to hear. It’d never irked him so much to playact the asshole before. It didn’t feel right to disrespect Fin this way. He stood. He’d had enough of the way men were always measuring their dicks but calling it money and influence. He had enough gains to call it quits, and he was irritated with himself for letting thoughts about Fin influence him.
You used a tool, it didn’t use you.
He made his excuses; a suitable lie and went to pay his regards to Bette before leaving.
“I like your Finley,” Bette said when he found her in the kitchen.
She’d gotten her long string of creamy pearls tangled in the gold chain she used for her glasses. He took them both from her and unknotted them, then ran her glasses under hot water, using a smidgeon of soap on the lenses. “I like her, too. Thank you for letting me bring her along.” He used a linen napkin to dry Bette’s glasses.
“This one makes a better partner for you.” Bette looped her pearls back over her neck.
“It’s early days. We’re only new, and you’ve known her for…” He looked at his watch and didn’t finish the sentence.
She laughed. “I’d known Clem ten days. Ten days, and I knew we were going to be together forever, and here we are seventy years later, and I haven’t kicked him out of my bed yet.”
“There’s still time.”
Bette took her glasses from his outstretched hand. “I don’t want to kill the old man off. You’re not impulsive like Ronald. You’ll do a better job of choosing a partner.”
Ronald was on wife three and child six and had looked at Fin as if she were property he’d like to own and trash. As if Fin would ever look at Ronald with interest. Well, not while she was with him on this job, anyway. But once they were done, she was her own agent, could do what she wanted, with who she wanted, and that was going to be a test of his desire to knock out at least half the men he associated with if they so much as blinked in her direction.
“You want someone steady to love, and I like this girl for you. She’s real.”
Oh yeah, she was real; she was out there acting up a storm, and as a couple, they were the very definition of a scam. He bussed Bette’s check. Called for his car and went in search of Fin.
“Those wives will all talk about me now,” she said while they waited for their elevator ride down to the foyer.
They would dissect her into a zillion pieces because she was fresh and vulnerable and not one of them.
She sighed, but when they were closed into elevator, she said, “See this face? Is this a face that looks like it cares?”
The face she had him look at was frozen into the horrified expression of the Home Alone kid.
“That is a face that looks like it’s had a terrible surprise.”
Her hands came off her cheeks, and she grabbed the lapels of his suit. “I made half a million dollars tonight.” She let go of his coat and turned in a circle. “Half a million dollars.” She stopped, blew on her fingers, and polished her knuckles on her dress. “How’d you do?”
“They have cameras in here you know,” he said.
She froze. He put his hand to her shoulder. “I’m kidding.” And he would’ve kissed her, but they were back in the foyer, and they did have cameras there, and he wasn’t supposed to be so drawn to her. It was a live wire in his circuit board, giving off sparks and threatening to blow. “Half a mil. Not bad.”
“Not bad.” She slapped his arm. “It was fucking awesome.”
She gave him a play-by-play in the car, barely able to sit on her side of the seat, her hands gesticulating wildly, her knees knocking into his thighs. He kept it to himself that it was a pittance. That he’d help her make much more.
When they pulled up outside her building, he got out of the car with her and then remembered he shouldn’t walk her to her door; it would send the wrong message. He was her boss, not her date.
“When do we do it again?” she asked.
“Next Saturday night. Something a little more fun. We’ll send you a briefing.” She looked disappointed. “That’s not a face that says gee whiz wow.” If she had plans, she’d have to cancel them. He should’ve made her not having a relationship while they worked together a condition.
“Saturday night is a whole week away.”
“That’s how the idea of a week works.” Had he created a greed monster in her already? He should’ve expected it. She was no Marilyn Monroe desperate to be taken seriously on her barstool anymore.
“It’s a long time before I see you again.”
His turn to make a face. She dipped her eyes and smiled, and then she went to her toes and kissed his cheek. He had to make a fist not to put his arm around her. “Finley.”
“You helped me make half a million dollars in a couple of hours tonight. I’m not hitting on you, I’m just saying thank you.”
She left him standing there with his hand to his cheek like a man who’d never been kissed by a real woman he admired, regretting she hadn’t hit on him, and agreeing Saturday was a long time away.
Chapter Thirteen
It took Fin a whole morning to convince Lenny the payment receipting whatsit on the new website wasn’t broken, that she really did go to a stuffy dinner party in a glossy Fifth Avenue penthouse with Cal and make half a million dollars.
She couldn’t convince Lenny she hadn’t gotten inside his underwear.
She’d never known anyone like Cal. She’d been attracted to him at first sight at the Blarney, even though he’d been grumpy and dickish. He’d also felt safe, because she’d never have thrown her arms around a stranger and kissed his lips off otherwise.
And then there was the way he reacted to that first surprising kiss. Full-on rolling with it. He’d given his considerable authority and control over to her, even when she’d had no idea what she was doing with him. Now that she knew what a control freak he was, with his background profiles, briefing documents, and lie detection skills, the fact she’d made him want her badly enough to
not take her to bed was the worst kind of series cliffhanger.
Except he hadn’t made a single move on her since. Despite provocation.
Mad provocation.
And some of it was his.
Putting logic aside, she badly wanted to break Cal again, make him forget the whole business-only thing, kick back and have some serious clothing optional fun.
It would just be sex. Keep calm and strip for intimacy and fun.
She’d made the mistake of thinking sex was more with Win. Lesson learned. It couldn’t possibly ruin anything between her and Cal, because their relationship was a deal and it had an end date. That wouldn’t change if they got naked and sweaty. They worked well together. They had that mutual won’t-pinch-your-ass, embarrass you, we-need-each-other thing going on. In fact, sex would enhance their cover story. Make them seem more real. And cure Lenny’s disbelief.
On top of which, Cal and Rory looked about as over as it was possible for a relationship to be, besides the regret, so what was the problem?
When Cal touched her, she reacted: her skin shivered, her senses went on alert, and that had nothing to do with the cueing. He took her hands, and he brought their bodies close, and sometimes when they weren’t touching, he looked like he wanted to reach for her. But she couldn’t read him as easily as he read her, and he’d reacted to her cheek kiss as if it were toxic. Maybe their lust-filled, hotel, almost sex only happened because he’d been drinking that night.
And wasn’t that a depressing thought.
A week was a long time to ponder the possible toxicity of a kiss, but climbing into the passenger seat of Cal’s car, a shiny, navy, low-to-the-ground, purring beast of a machine, and seeing him dressed casually was worth the wait. His jeans were old and worn, and fit just right, and his white shirt was made from soft fabric that looked incredibly touchable. He wore aviator style sunglasses and seemed almost carefree.
One Night Wife (Confidence Game) Page 11