by Susan Arden
He and Claudia met on a photo shoot down in Bimini. One damn thing led to another, and Claudia began wedding talk. She ordered a ring—charged to him—and set a date he chose to ignore. At first, he didn’t want to deal with the emotional headache of setting the facts straight. Then having a fiancée around, tending to the details of his life, seemed to work for her and him. He came back between magazine assignments, and they hooked up at whichever of his flats felt like a respite. Here in Denver, it was the outdoors and his old chums. He had his interests, and she had hers. He’d refused to think about his personal life until forced to consider the upcoming wedding date wasn’t in the stars. Not for him.
“Now is your time to revel in I told you so. Well, have at it, old man.” Conrad dug into his pocket for his pack of crushed Marlboros.
“I think I shall.” Louis spun on his heel, waving his arms as he made his way to the wet bar across the living room. “No one in his right mind gets engaged on his second date. You had blinders on, and no one blames you. Supermodels have a way of doing that, but everyone fully understood Claudia was a gold digger. Did I bring up that you were warned?”
“Louis, you’ve this tosser way of trying to make me out to be a dithering idiot. Can you press the wound harder?” Lighting a cigarette, Conrad inhaled the searing smoke, staring at the newsprint.
He held the cigarette between his lips as he folded the paper, then tossed it into the wastepaper basket next to his desk. He rose from his chair and wandered over to the glass wall overlooking the river and skyline. He pressed his forearm to the cool, smooth panel and let his gaze trace the flowing river, running silver in the sunset. Slices of pink water jetted along with the current while his racing thoughts swirled in a mindless direction.
Fuck, this hiatus was murder. He should be on the move as well, instead of holed up in this damn flat. Here in town, the Denver Times reflected the long arm of his family and proof of their displeasure in his lone wolf stance. The paper stirred up trouble, leaking his whereabouts so reporters could easily find him in a larger-than-life SNAFU. Downstairs, the doorman kept the reporters from coming up and harassing him directly. The newspaper kept the story in spin by feeding the details to the local news stations. Then the rampage began in earnest after the Associated Press picked up the piece. L.A., New York, Boston, D.C., and finally across the pond to London and Paris. A few of his occasional stomping grounds were overrun. He’d gone from being invisible to fair game for the paparazzi or any jackass with a cell camera.
In Soho, back home where his art gallery was housed, crowds bustled inside just to see if he was around, according to the friends who had called to check on him. His manager emailed earlier: Misery loves misery. Business is great. Stay put.
Conrad’s continuing refusal to join his ancestral wolf pack had his father seeing red. The old man had given him an ultimatum: fall in line by the end of the month, or else. In truth, it was a declaration that Conrad sell out and work for his family and their media conglomeration. Or be cut off. He didn’t need their financial assistance. Hadn’t in years. But that didn’t mean he was without an Achilles heel. And his father knew right where to strike.
Roger Fisher played his hand well along the East Coast where Pulse, the magazine featuring Conrad’s photojournalism pieces were published. His father deployed precise, targeted hits. As the victim, Pulse couldn’t ignore the almighty Fisher family in their ability to buckle advertisement revenue. That slaughter mentality was another reason why Conrad had purposely chosen to thwart his family’s omnipotence and work at a small-scale indie publication. Unfortunately, his editor’s phone call was no surprise.
Conrad turned around and faced his friend. “Hate sitting around here. Present company included.”
“Sod. Just for that I’m going to indulge in your aged liquor.” Louis was already stationed behind the bar with an open bottle of Scotch, liberally pouring two drinks. “I thought you were mending your fences.”
“Not planned until today. I’d rather be crucified, but martyrdom isn’t all it is cracked up to be when it involves innocent victims. Or so I’m learning.”
“I saw the invitation when I came in. Received mine. Are you actually attending this year?”
Conrad ground his cigarette butt in a pewter ashtray, clenching his jaw in distaste of the truth. “Been royally commanded. My father called again, and I could hear my mum in the background. They have the bit in their teeth and are running with it.”
“They want their youngest settled. Can’t blame a family for trying. Stop brooding. You’re a free man. Ride the tide and go see your family. You know how well the prodigal son homecoming is likely to play out in your favor.”
“This stinks of blackmail. You don’t honestly think I bought the paper to read about myself.” The copy had been hand-delivered to his flat by his loving sister. He opened the door, not expecting a pity party. Kat, in her usual lack of decorum, had tossed the paper into his face, turned, and left with a biting “arsehole” flung over her shoulder.
Louis crossed the space with a drink in each hand. “Don’t be so straitlaced. Bend a little, and you’ll be back in good graces.”
“I’m not that flexible.” Conrad scraped his hand down his face, not ready to admit he was pleased to be free again in the face of his family’s pretense it was open hunting season for one bachelor. Namely, him.
Why on earth did his family think it imperative that he find a mate and settle down? He wasn’t as old as Abraham. He took his drink, raised his glass in a silent cheer. His friend clinked his tumbler, and they both sipped the smooth liquor. Conrad ignored the heat growing in his empty belly and took another long pull from the glass. Dammit, he hadn’t been drunk in ages.
“Sure you are. Everyone who comes from families like ours learns. You’ve escaped the fold. Someday the piper must be paid.” Louis swirled the Scotch in his glass, appearing to contemplate the matter.
“They want a grandchild. I’m not a stud.”
“Do you honestly think Claudia was a brood mare? She didn’t strike me as the motherly type.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m single again. And yes. I’m going to the ball. So don’t worry yourself shamelessly.” He definitely had no plans on hooking up with a woman chosen by his mother. By agreeing to attend the ball, he was only buying time and forestalling his family from truly lowering the boom. He’d pick his battles and needed to gather his resources for the real war he intended on waging. Until then, he’d let his parents believe he was considering their suggestion.
“The whole business of a breakup is far from routine. I still can’t come to grips with the fact that you of all people were engaged.”
“Moving ahead to the here and now. I’d like to get my life back.” His family, officially a pack of backbiters and power moguls, had big plans for him and his ability to procreate an heir.
“And you’re certain you’ll not back out at the last minute?”
“Can’t. I’m landlocked. They’ve got me where they want me on this round.”
His father specifically was out for blood in the form of an unrelenting demand of Conrad’s attendance at this farce of a socialite gathering referred to as the annual charity ball for the homeless. A play on words when the homeless were debutantes and families seeking mates for their precious daughters. A weekend of nonstop torture. The thick ivory-colored envelope lay on the entry table, and a devastating domino effect had followed. With this blasted ball coming up, Morton Keller, his editor, had gotten into the act by taking him out of rotation.
Thanks to his family, he was here instead of lost on a hike across a desert or outback or up the side of a mountain. Until Conrad gave in and showed his face at the ball, his family had no plan of relenting.
At the moment Conrad was feeling the pressure on both sides. As of an hour ago, Mort also began playing hardball. With the severing of advertisement revenue, his editor had given Conrad two weeks to get his house in order or face being fired. With the blink of a
n eye, Roger Fisher, or one of his minions, had called in favors and gotten sponsors to pull ads at Pulse and threatened to shut the magazine down. In turn, Mort calmly relayed the gist and told him to fix it. Fast. Officially, Conrad was removed from the duty roster. Refused any more assignments until he settled family business. More like extortion.
He flexed his grip on his glass and inhaled at the thought of the upcoming charity ball. He tossed the rest of his Scotch down his throat and walked to the bar. Would he have still broken up with Claudia if he’d known of the ripple effect? Yeah. The expiration on their affair had come and gone. Sitting here with Louis, he didn’t miss Claudia, the woman. They’d became more like friends with benefits. And he had no intention of starting out marrying a woman where the passion had waned. Fizzled. He didn’t consider himself a romantic, but hell, every man wanted a woman he was edgy to return to and sweep into his bed.
“There was a slightly off-balance attraction thing in the beginning. But total agreement. I should have righted the misunderstanding from the get-go.”
His friend’s eyes bulged. “Slight, my ass. She’s hot no matter who was looking, and that was your issue. The head you were thinking with. Man, talk about a misunderstanding. What you should have done was agreed to never see that beautiful whack job again.”
“I was busy. It got away from me. Didn’t think Claudia was serious about wanting to get married. At least not to someone like me.” He wasn’t going to argue the details. Some he didn’t understand himself.
“Damn, if that is the excuse you’re going with, no wonder that lunatic took advantage of you. Personally, I don’t think you’re a catch, traipsing all over the world. But some women would be delighted to get a piece of your family’s action. Rubbing elbows with celebrities, and there’s your king’s hoard inheritance.”
“At this rate, that day will never come. I’m not going to this ball to be ensnared. Debutants—especially shifter debutantes—are looking for one thing. That one thing I can never be. I’m not putting on a necktie to come down to dinner each and every night.”
“One day even you might find a reason to stay put. You don’t know.” Louis kicked his feet up onto the cocktail table.
“I don’t want to find out. What I do well is short-term. A cover would be perfect. A girl who knows the score and is willing to go with the flow for one weekend. Hell, it wasn’t my idea. That reporter asked. I’m merely going with the gossip. It would be faultless to show up with the other woman.”
“Then shut up. You’re coming to the Downtown Den for the evening. You might find someone worth taking. It’s called speed dating for a reason. Slim chances you’ll end up with someone like Claudia. Christ, talk about clingy. The woman screened your calls and read your emails.”
“She enjoyed running the show. Hell, I wasn’t here. Someone had to.” He poured another drink. Picking up his glass, he took hold of the bottle, swinging it en route to the sofa.
“More like a choke hold on you.”
“We had some good times.”
“Name one where your clothes were on?”
“Why?” Conrad plunked down, unhanding the bottle to his friend. “I want to end up pissed as hell tonight. Tosser, just oblige me.”
“First, humor me. Just name one freaking time.”
Conrad lifted his hand, giving his friend the bird. “Fuck off.”
“Point. And that, my friend, is what you should have told Claudia when she announced the engagement when you were neck deep in the Amazon. Seriously, being the good guy only gets you into trouble. Think with your dick or be a dick.”
“Screw or get screwed?” He snorted. “I’d rather be doing the screwing.”
“No one said you were a silly sausage,” Louis chortled.
“Maybe. Now I’m without a date to a wolf reunion. I need someone who can handle the heat without melting. There were perks to being engaged. Never had to worry about what to wear. Claudia was an incredible personal shopper. For two years I avoided this ball without the fight.”
“Then figure on the Den tomorrow. For drinks and kicks. Nothing crazy. Everyone has their clothes on. There’s no pressure. You can sit on the fence unless you want to have sex. Then disappear upstairs. No shame one way—or the other.”
“I’m well aware of the Den.” Conrad lit another cigarette, inhaled then blew a ring of blue smoke toward the ceiling. “Fine. Only because I’m caught up on my expense reports for Pulse and my editor hasn’t sent an emergency email with flight information.”
“I guarantee you won’t be sorry. Spend a night at the Den. Hell, you’ve survived a plane crash in the Mojave Desert. This ought to be a cakewalk.”
“No way!” Mari grimaced and all but snorted into Sonya’s face. A prickle of aggravation scattered over her skin, chafing her wolf nature. “We’ve already addressed my hard limits.”
“We are running on fumes,” her friend muttered, lowering the risqué French maid costume from in front of Mari’s nose.
“Considering I’m pitching in to help you, I’d rather keep my privates under wraps.” Mari tossed her head, unwilling to cave. Nobody would want to get a load of her bottom or thighs tomorrow evening.
Sonya recoiled as Mari held up a Tweedy Bird mask. “Excuse me. Coming as a cartoon character is worse than showing a little leg. Let me remind you, this isn’t volunteer church work. Bring sexy back, and you might have a little fun.”
“I do appreciate the extra work. But I took it hoping to earn some money and possibly make a professional connection. Just keep looking.”
“Jeez. I am, but there are few pickings left that meet your list of provincial requirements.”
“Wanting to show up in something larger than a string bikini doesn’t make me a fun-hating prude.”
Sonya hoisted a hanger upward. “Mari, you’d look amazing in this with your curves.” Her friend bit her lip, displaying a black rubbery fetish miniskirt complete with fishnet stockings.
“Read my lips.” Mari shook her head, wagging her finger at Sonya. “Forget. It.”
“Fine. We’re about to come to the end in the women’s section. That leaves men or children’s. Are you hankering to show up as Sponge Bob?” Sonya asked, pressing her lips and jerking her chin toward the other side of the store. The act made her friend’s head of tight curls bounce.
“Maybe,” Mari murmured. She swung her glance across the shop. Running her hands over her waist and hips, she whispered offhandedly, “If only the Little Mermaid costume was a gazillion sizes larger.”
“Stop that. Another cartoon for children,” Sonya hissed, thrusting a white get-up her way. “What about a nurse? You might find someone to play doctor with.”
“I’d rather find an editor hungry to hire a reporter. Got any of those on the list of guests?” Mari retorted, staring at Sonya’s newest costume find. She promptly huffed at the microscopic white dress as though it might understand her predicament.
“Not exactly. But in the meantime,” Sonya winked, “considering there are two eligible doctors on the guest list, you might get lucky. It’s been too long since you’ve had a date. You’re getting grumpy.”
“Give me that.” Mari gingerly hooked her finger around the hanger and plucked the costume from Sonya’s hand, then replaced the gaudy version of Nurse Betty on the rack. “I can’t do this rendition of cheap, or someone will need the ER.”
Flustered, Sonya nodded. “I’m not giving up.”
“Widen your thematic search beyond micro costumes to something I won’t catch pneumonia wearing. For Pete’s sake! I know you’re coming in something sophisticated and not about to embarrass the owners.”
“Now, don’t bite my head off. What about this one?”
That request means trouble. Mari counted to five before turning around. “I’m all eyes.”
“Don’t you just love the asymmetrical neckline?” Sonya held out a toga costume. “It could work with a gold-colored mask and a garland. Ya know, the sort made from leaves. C
an’t remember which kind.”
“That depends. Olympic winners were crowned with olive, and Pythians received garlands made from laurel.” Mari wrinkled her nose. “Looks a lot like the other four we’ve seen, only this time the goddess might as well flash her fanny. It’s way too revealing for someone like me.”
“Shut your face. Mari, you’re beautiful. What the heck is going through your head?”
“Not much, except I have a day to come up with a costume for the masquerade-themed date night you rooked me into…or did you forget why we’re surrounded by plastic swords, masks, and feathers?”
“Honey, my feet are well aware that this is the fifth and last costume store in Denver. And there was no coercion. I admit it might have slipped my mind to point out the theme, which for most people isn’t earth-shattering. Who knew finding a costume was so difficult?”
“Not for someone like you and your size-four figure.”
Mari exhaled in exasperation. She exercised regularly with yoga in the park and Rumba at the gym, and she had her own elliptical trainer in her living room. Her refrigerator was stocked with enough fresh veggies the sight would make a rabbit green with envy. Frustrating as hell, she could subsist on little fuel. Great if she were a hybrid car. Not at all helpful when trying to find a costume to wear. When she’d accepted the challenge to step in and help out, the impromptu opportunity was merely a singles event. She hadn’t thought to ask if there was a theme.
Too late; Mari had already agreed to do guest check-in when the bomb dropped. Casually, Sonya mentioned in passing the singles night was a masquerade party this month. Oh, yeah. That barn burner piece of info had been left out, and Mari almost yelped in shock at first. Outrage came second.
“That’s nothing more than a case of the grass is greener. Everyone has got something to hide.”
“Don’t I know it! Who would have thought following a lead could get me canned.”
“You never said. Was the guy guilty of being an SOB or not?”