One Night Wife Page 7

  “How is it different to standing on a barstool, hiking down your T-shirt, and doing the same thing?”

  She glanced at all the glamor. It was refined, the viciousness hidden under layers of expensive fashion and good manners. This wasn’t the Blarney. These weren’t Friday night drinkers looking for a distraction, and she was far too sober. “For one thing, that totally failed.”

  “You didn’t have me then.”

  Did she have him now? “You won’t abandon me out there, will you?”

  “Only when Zeke stands in.”

  “Exactly how is this going to work? How will I know who I’m pitching?”

  “I won’t introduce you to anyone who’s not fair play. And there isn’t anyone in this room not wealthy enough to give and not impolitic to be rude while I’m with you.”

  Which told her how rude they’d be if he wasn’t.

  He stepped in front of her. “You look the part. You have your script. What’s your favor going to be?”

  In the role play at Sherwood’s offices, it was the moment Zeke got Cal to sign him in at the golf club. Fin’s equivalent had come to her in the car on the way here when she realized Lenny’s lovely diamond earring kept getting twisted in a tendril of hair she’d left out of her up do. It was twisted with her hair now.

  She held her champagne flute out and Cal took it. She pulled her hair out of the earring and held her hand out for the glass again. “Thank you so much.”

  He laughed. “You’re a natural.”

  With him, maybe. Cal, who looked like old Hollywood in his tux, with his inky dark hair, strong jaw, and digitally enhanced blue eyes.

  He offered his arm, and she wrapped hers around it. “Are you scared I’m going to bolt?”

  “I’m scared you’re going to eclipse the sun.”

  Cal Sherwood, you keep saying things like that, you are so getting kissed.

  He walked her slowly into the room, not going to knots of people, but focusing first on the art. It was interesting; both large and miniature scale, provocative and amusing, but whatever the artist, Remy, was trying to say was mostly lost on Fin. What was obvious was that Cal understood art, and he wanted them to be seen arm in arm. She didn’t know what to make of that, either.

  They were standing by a person-sized, yellow rain boot that was poised to stomp on a mini skyscraper city when he said, “The blond guy in the old-fashioned tux.”

  “You know him?”

  “You’re going to pitch him. His name is Halsey. He runs an investment fund. Works hard. Kind of dull. Has a thing for vintage. Single. Loves his mother.” Cal dropped his arm, and they were two separate people again. “Ready?”

  She felt like a tiny crushable city. “Sure.” She reached up and twisted the piece of loose hair around the earring.

  As they made their way to Halsey, God was that his first name or last, he hailed Cal with a wave, and then it was introduction time.

  Cal did that manly shoulder-clap thing. “Halsey, this is Finley Cartwright.”

  “Finley.” Halsey’s hand came out.

  And so did Fin’s words. “Oh, they’re gorgeous.” She took his hand and tilted her head to see his wrist. “Your cufflinks.”

  “Art Deco. Onyx and pearl.”

  “Were they handed down?”

  “More like hunted down.”

  “Worth it.”

  Cal cleared his throat, and they both looked at him. He’d stepped a little apart. “Finley has her own charity.”

  “Cal is so good at promoting me.” She thrust her glass at Halsey. “Would you mind holding this a moment? This earring keeps getting caught.” She pulled her hair away and smiled at Halsey, who handed her flute back. “Is there any spare change left over from your hunting?”

  “I spend it on tickets to events like this generally, but I can always scratch something up for a worthwhile cause.”

  She worked to control her expression, make it smooth, bland, not show her amazement. This could maybe, possibly work. She was supposed to put Halsey off to make him keener to be involved, but that was a risk. What if she simply asked for money, closed the sale right now? She chanced a look at Cal.

  “Halsey’s scratch is other people’s buy-a-car money,” he said, which was an instruction.

  “I imagine you support all kinds of charitable works.”

  “There’s always room for one more,” Halsey said.

  “But you’re here to enjoy the art.”

  He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I don’t understand the art.”

  She laughed. “Thought it was just me.”

  “Tell me about your charity.”

  “We provide small loans to women in need to help them raise their families and become financially secure over time.” She went on to explain how the loan was paid back but without interest and how investors could have their money returned or keep investing it.

  When he asked what level of investment she was looking for she didn’t hesitate. She wasn’t on a bar stool asking for a dollar. “Five thousand.” It was the amount Cal had said to ask for.

  Halsey reached into his pocket. “How do I transfer the money to you?”

  Inside, she was shouting, spinning, and she might never be able to stop. She’d had cards printed with the deposit details and handed Halsey one. He frowned and held his phone out, the screen open to a banking app. “You do it. Make it ten thousand.”

  She almost dropped the phone.

  “May vintage cufflinks rain down on you, Halsey. Thank you.” She studied the app and plugged in D4D’s account numbers. She typed the one and followed it with four zeros and hit okay and it was done. Just like that. In less than ten minutes, exactly as Cal said it would happen. And she’d barely used the script she’d labored over, relying instead on looking for ways to connect with Halsey and ad-libbing as Cal said she’d learn to.

  She had enough money to jailbreak the website. Cal had made it possible.

  “Cal, is that Herman Belcher?” said Halsey. The two men looked off into the crowd, and the app pinged in Fin’s hand. Transaction complete.

  Halsey heard that ping and took his cell from her. He motioned into the room. “I need to catch Herman. Nice to meet you, Finley. Cal can give you my details to put on your donors’ list. Keep my money rotating and be sure to come back for more.”

  She looked at Cal, stunned.

  “Happy birthday, Madam President,” he said, then reached for her hand. He’d ended up with her glass, and he switched it for a fresh one with a passing waiter. “Catch your breath.” He handed her the flute, and she took it on autopilot. “We’re going over there to hit on Trevor Rosen. He’s in oil. He’s into horses. Breeds them. Hates events like this, but his wife drags him around, and he loves his wife. No, wait. He’s scared of his wife. They’re her oil wells.”

  She didn’t move off when he did, and he turned back, looking down at their connected hands. “Problem?”

  She closed the distance between them. “He gave me ten thousand dollars.”

  “Cheapskate.”

  She squeezed his hand. “It was a fluke. Beginner’s luck.”

  He squeezed back. “Let’s go see if you’re right.”

  She was wrong. So very, very wrong. Trevor Rosen was henpecked and happy to help. His wife would approve, he said as he handed over his eight thousand and then topped it up to sixteen when Cal made a joke at his expense about horse feed.

  Clive Pagent was a womanizer. The way he looked at Fin made her feel dirty, but he gave her twelve thousand dollars. George Astropopolous gave her money, as did Norman Chan and Joshua Steiner and all the while, Cal had her back, feeding information, making jokes at the appropriate places and prodding the discussion along if it floundered.

  She untangled her earring a dozen times and lost count of the money she’d made, and every time Cal held out his hand, she took it and never wanted to let go, in case there was some kind of voodoo in the very action of holding on to him.

  And t
hen Zeke was there, and the best way to describe how he looked in formalwear was louche. If that man didn’t get laid tonight, she’d eat Lenny’s shoes, which might be preferable to wearing them.

  “I need to go talk to some people. Zeke will spot for you,” Cal said.

  Zeke was watching somewhere over her head. “I’m all yours, Finley, and I’ve got some fine pickings lined up for you.”

  She gripped Cal’s hand when he tried to slip away. She could stop now. She’d made more money than she dared hope for.

  “You can’t possibly be nervous now. You’re slaying them,” he said, not unkindly.

  “You’re my good luck charm.”

  “It’s not luck, Fin, it’s skill. It’s the right place, the right people. It’s you.”

  If she spoke, she’d blurt out something inappropriate, and Cal deserved time out from babysitting her to do his own thing. He released her hand but stepped closer. “Trust the process. Trust yourself.” He reached up and tangled her hair in her earring, and her heart did a scary, painful double thump that was loud in her ears. He smiled, excruciatingly debonair, and then he was gone.

  Zeke clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Let’s go make you some money.”

  She watched Cal glad-hand his way across the room, stopping to wave or to smile at one group of people or another. He was a commanding presence, and that’s when it hit her.

  “They were only giving me money to please Cal.”

  Zeke wrinkled his nose. “How badly does it matter to you?”

  There was two thousand dollars and some change in the D4D account when she stepped out on the red carpet tonight. When she walked it the other way, she’d have secured a year’s rent, ensured the new website was paid for, installed, and up and running, and they could immediately make donations happen.

  She’d never been in a one woman show, was always part of an ensemble where many performers contributed to the success of the event. It didn’t matter a dime that she wasn’t the star, that she was in the chorus and needed Cal or Zeke as her leading men.

  She smiled up at Zeke. “Show me the money.”

  Chapter Eight

  Cal almost walked into an elegant backside in a tight-fitting green dress because he was acutely aware that Fin was watching him and that screwed with his navigation system.

  She’d done a magnificent job, the right amount of hesitancy and humility capped with shy confidence and subtle flirting. What was wrong with casting directors that they couldn’t see how she shone? Hollywood types were damn charlatans, anyway.

  He shouldn’t have held her hand; it’s not like she wasn’t poised, but he’d found it entirely necessary to his own mental wellbeing. Fin in her jeans and tee, in her Marilyn dress, and in her cheap business suit were all delectable, but Fin in a dress that dipped and fluttered around her, with her hair styled and her eyes framed by a million lashes, that Fin made him want to keep her to himself, huddle among the installations and laugh at her random explanations of the art she was seeing.

  And when she was in action, turning on the charm effortlessly, it was all he could do not to put his hands all over her and warn every other man in the room off.

  He stopped by an installation. Sixteen shrouded figures clustered around a single oversized daisy. What would Fin make of this one?

  After they’d fleeced the fourth or fifth person, he’d almost told her Halsey was a plant to build her confidence. That unlike the rest of the family, all dark haired and blue eyed like Cal, Halsey took after their mother. He had Katrice’s blond hair and green eyes. He’d decided it would throw Fin’s rhythm off.

  His own could do with a shake-up; he should’ve kept moving, but he’d allowed himself to be ambushed.

  The beringed hands that snaked around his middle from behind and the firm breasts that pushed into his back could only belong to one person.

  “Madeline.” He tolerated her touch less easily tonight because Fin was here. He could see Zeke at the other end of the room and knew Fin would be at his side.

  “Are you avoiding me, lover?”

  They weren’t lovers. They’d never be lovers, but after the drama with Rory, Madeline Ashton-Ashby had made it her business to tempt him into her bed. After Rory, women were either scandalized by his presence—see note under reputation as an abusive asshole—or too busy trying to hit on him, see same note: people were strange creatures. There was much more of the latter than the former, which was disturbing. He’d go a long way in the service of a grift, especially with his own private wealth at stake, but his cover story wouldn’t survive philandering; it would only prove he was everything Rory had said about him.

  He shifted to disengage from Madeline as she whispered in his ear, “Who is she?”

  Ah. Fin’s fame was spreading. Excellent, but he couldn’t resist his, “Who?” before pulling away.

  “Don’t play the fool. She doesn’t belong here, and that dress is last season’s color.”

  “Don’t play the jealousy card, Maddy. Her name is Finley Cartwright. She has a charity we’re supporting, and you’re married.”

  She was married in the way being married to a man thirty years her senior who’d had two strokes was married. Which meant, available for dalliances with appropriate, discreet suitors.

  “Doesn’t explain why you had to haul her around by the hand all night.”

  Bitter before she was thirty, but Maddy wouldn’t leave Bennet Ashton-Ashby because she wouldn’t walk away from the life of luxury she lived with multiple homes, a team of personal staff, and hundreds of ways to use her leisure that burned through a generous allowance. Of course, she would be poor, because Cal intended to quietly take her husband for every liquid penny he had.

  “Are you using this girl to get over Rory? Stupid man. You could’ve been using me.”

  “Finley’s not a girl.” She didn’t kiss like a girl, argue like a girl, or want like a girl. And they were using each other.

  “Caleb Sherwood, you have a thing for the little charity worker. I should’ve guessed you’d fall for someone you could stage manage.” Maddy cut off his protest. “You can’t keep your eyes off her, and it’s all over you like cheap perfume. She’s far too innocent for you.”

  He’d corrupt Fin, that was for sure. That’s why she could never know the truth about what Sherwood did, what he did, and what he felt not a shred of remorse for. Change the topic. “Zeke is here.”

  “You’re pimping out your own brother.” Maddy laughed.

  Pimping Zeke out to make sure he didn’t set his heart after Fin. Cal pushed a hand through his hair. Now, that was screwed up. He couldn’t have Fin, and he didn’t want his brother to have her either. Fuck.

  Maddy leaned forward and kissed his check. “Zeke is a little too wild, and Halsey is a little too geek. You were just right, but it’s not to be.”

  He watched her go and then went to flatter, cajole, and con the most powerful, entitled, and unethical men in the room. He made his way around the various groups, inquiring after health, whispering investment tips, some real, some speculative, making comments about the art he’d read up on, telling jokes. He was in fine form he was told, and he knew that had to do with Fin, pride in her achievement, the frisson of knowing he’d see her again before the night was over. The wanting to have her so badly he felt like drinking, and he never drank when he was working, just made it look like he did.

  When his path accidentally crossed Fin’s, she broke away from Zeke and walked right into his space. He should’ve stepped back, should’ve sent her home. He took her hand. “Had enough?”

  Her eyes glittered, and her smile was brilliant, but she shifted uneasily from foot to foot making the skirt of her dress brush his legs. “Never. This is addictive.”

  She’d discovered the secret of life. Making money was a high stakes game of risk and reward whether you did it legally or not, and it was heady.

  “Best not to stay too long at the ball, Cinderella. I’ll call your car.”<
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  She shook her head. “I want to show you something first.”

  It would be amusing which installation had caught her eye enough for her to want to share it with him. He let her lead him across the room, but instead of choosing one of the sculptures, she headed for a concealed door in the wall, and before he could stop her, she’d pushed it open and they were on the other side.

  Service corridor, dark, unused. Stacks of chairs and folded tables, and as his eyes adjusted, Fin looking like she might burst out of her skin.

  “My feet are killing me,” she said.

  “You brought me back here to tell me that?” Whatever she said, he was already delighted by it, by her barely contained glee.

  Finley Cartwright was a triple threat. Sing, dance, act. She’d done all three tonight. Played the part of an unwitting con to make him look like a good guy, waltzed into the wallets of unsuspecting marks, and sang her little heart out. A modicum of pride would be acceptable for seeing the potential in her, for coaching her. The way his body went on alert because they were alone, because she wasn’t acting now, she was projecting her astonishment and her gratitude, wasn’t pride—it was the thick buzz of lust.

  “I’ve worked here, functions like this, offered drinks, cleaned up after people. Tonight, I made more money than I ever imagined possible using your formula. Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

  He leaned back against a smooth wall and spread his hands like a preacher. “Ye of little faith.”

  She took two steps forward and pressed against him with her whole body, with her fingers hooked over his shoulders.

  “Finley.” He kept his hands away and used a warning tone. Superhuman effort required.

  “You could say you don’t want this.”

  That was certainly an option.

  She stood on her toes. He lowered his head and she kissed him. Ah, don’t do this.

  She pulled back enough for them to make eye contact. Enough for him to see the mad mix of excitement, gratitude, and desire in her expression. It was everything he felt and tried not to show. He’d be right back in that alley outside the Blarney before his head had cooled if he let her kiss him again.