Neck & Neck (11 page)

“Hello, Dean,” she greeted him dispassionately, speaking into her martini rather than to him, suddenly wishing she’d ordered a shooter instead, so she could toss it back in one gulp and then order another. Double. “Fancy meeting you here,” she added. To her martini.

She was being sarcastic, of course. Dean worked on the same block as the Brown and ate here with some regularity. And since his condo on one of the uppermost floors of Waterfront Park Place—which, Natalie had to admit, had spectacular views of the Ohio and downtown—was only minutes away, he ate here, or at another expensive downtown restaurant, even on the weekends. He saw it as a testament to both his wealth and his health that he could spend so much on a meal so often and eat so sumptuously without hurting his wallet or his well-being. Natalie saw it as a testament to how badly she wanted to score Russell Mulholland for Clementine’s party, if she would spend so much time at the Brown and risk running into Dean.

Apples and oranges.

“I’m not surprised at all,” he told her, his blue eyes twinkling. Honestly. Twinkling. How did someone make that happen without special contact lenses or something? And his black hair shone with bits of golden highlights under the amber lighting that made it look as if he’d been gilded. The effect was only enhanced by the amber shirt and tie he wore with his chocolate-colored suit. What a waste, that such good looks should encase such a creepy guy. “What does surprise me,” he continued, “is that you feel it’s necessary to resort to ruses like accidentally running into me at my favorite place to eat, dressed like that, in order to attract my attention, when you know I’m yours for the taking.”

Natalie would rather take cyanide than take Dean, but that was neither here nor there. And the reason she’d dressed “like that” was because she was still stalking—ah, she meant scoping out—the Brown for . . . Russell Mulholland. The sleeveless emerald dress was by far the most flattering garment she owned, enhancing what few curves she had and making her normally boring hazel eyes look greener and larger. Just because it was more low-cut and had a higher hemline than what she usually wore for stalking—ah, she meant scoping out the Brown—didn’t mean anything. Certainly it didn’t mean she’d been trying to attract Dean.

In response to his remark, however, she only smiled weakly and said, “Gosh, am I that transparent?” Because she’d learned long ago that the more she tried to convince Dean she was in no way interested in him, the more he took it as a sign that she was playing hard to get, and the more he stepped up his pursuit of her.

Again, she thought,
Ew
.

“Why don’t you just stop playing games and marry me?” he asked. “Stop pretending at this career thing that you know as well as I do you’re completely unsuited for, and spend your days doing the things women are supposed to do.”

Since it was looking like there was little chance she would be getting rid of Dean anytime soon, Natalie decided to turn the encounter into a drinking game. Every time Dean said something stupid, she would have to take a drink. So, in response to his question, she enjoyed a healthy swallow of her martini and replied, “And what, pray tell, would be the things women are supposed to do, Dean?”

He smiled in a way that said she should already know the answer to that. And, of course, she did. Pretty much. But the workday for most people was over, and instead of being out enjoying some kind of entertainment with friends, Natalie was still working, because stalking—ah, she meant scoping out the Brown—for Russell Mulholland constituted work, and she was confident that no matter what Dean said, it was bound to be entertaining.

“Oh, you know,” he began in that dismissive tone of voice that made her teeth hurt. She clutched her drink tighter, ready to swig at will. “Shopping . . .” he continued.

Swig.

“. . . lunching . . .”

Swig.

“. . . chatting on the phone . . .”

Swig. And, just for the hell of it, swig again.

“. . . and organizing functions to help out sick and impoverished people and all the other wretched refuse from a safe distance.”

Swig. Swig. Swig.

“The kind of things our mothers did,” he concluded. “And still have the feminine decency to do.”

Natalie took another generous swig of her martini, or, at least, tried to—wow, was it empty already?—and said, “But, Dean. I do
all
of those things. In fact, organizing functions is what I do for a living. It’s my
career thing
.” Even though it wasn’t necessary to emphasize that last part, she did it anyway, because she knew it would make Dean’s teeth hurt, too.

“Yes, I know,” he said after grinding his teeth. “But I also know the only reason you have that ridiculous notion about wanting a career in the first place is because your life is so empty in other areas.” He leaned forward and cocked a dark brow at her. “Other areas that I could fill quite nicely,” he murmured in a way that he probably thought was sexually suggestive, but which really made him sound like he should be listed on an Internet offender site somewhere. “And, Natalie,” he added, dropping his voice low enough so that only she could hear him, “I do mean I could
fill
those places. All three of them.”

Without asking, she grabbed Dean’s glass and drained what was left in it. Gak. Bourbon. That wasn’t going to mix well with her martini. On the upside, maybe the combination would make her pass out. Or, better still, it might make her throw up. All over Dean.

A girl could dream, couldn’t she?

She was about to say something in response to his odious remarks—something along the lines of “Help! Help! I’m being molested by this man!”—but the waiter arrived table side to inquire if the gentleman would be joining the lady for dinner. Natalie was about to correct his erroneous assumption about the gentleman thing when Dean took the liberty of ordering the lady another martini and himself another Bourbon on the rocks.

As much as she hated to ask, she knew the question— and the answer, too, alas—was inevitable. “
Are
you going to be joining me for dinner, Dean?”

His reply was as immediate as it was inevitable. Alas. “Of course. Since I know it’s what you so desperately want.”

She looked up at the waiter. “You better make that martini a double.” After another look at Dean—and that still-arched eyebrow—she turned to the waiter again. “And bring two of them.”

Dean chuckled at that, and after the waiter left, murmured in that icky voice again, “Whatever puts you in the mood.”

What it took to put her in the sort of mood Dean was talking about—at least with Dean—would take more than a couple of double martinis. It would take a veritable
case
of gin. And also a vial or two of Novocain. And a good solid blow to the back of her head. But she decided not to tell him that, since it would make him signal for the waiter to bring a few dozen pitchers of martinis and then run out for a hypodermic needle and a Louisville Slugger.

“Seriously, Natalie,” he said as he leaned back in his chair again, his gaze fixed on hers. “When are you going to get over this idea that there’s a businesswoman lurking inside you and take your rightful place in my”—now he grinned an icky grin—“home,” he finished, even though she was sure he was talking about a very specific room in that home, and if he had his way, she’d never leave it. Except to lunch, shop, chat on the phone, and organize things. And possibly dress up like a shepherdess, but that was just speculation on Natalie’s part. “If it’s about the prenup,” he added, “I’ve told you that’s negotiable.”

Somehow, Natalie refrained from laughing in his face. Her family was easily worth twice what Dean’s was, and the amount in her trust fund was triple his. But if a disputed prenuptial agreement was the reason he wanted to cling to for why she wouldn’t marry him, who was she to dissuade him of it? Especially since she’d already tried a half dozen times to dissuade him of it, only to have him not believe a word she said. Probably because he couldn’t imagine anyone putting that much money into a trust fund for a woman who would just squander it on shopping, lunching, running up a phone bill, and giving it away to undeserving sick and impoverished people. So Natalie had just done her best to avoid Dean when she could. And, in situations like this, where that was impossible . . .

Well, if she didn’t have access to martinis, she just suffered. A lot.

“You know, Dean,” she said, deciding the best way to avoid talking about both her business acumen and his marriage proposal was to avoid talking about both her business acumen and his marriage proposal, “I was just sitting here thinking about that time in cotillion class when Miss Leslie spent an entire afternoon teaching us about the vastly different roles rim soup bowls play from footed soup bowls. Do you remember that?”

To his credit, his expression changed not at all. “Um, no. I don’t remember that.”

“Wow, I sure do,” Natalie said exuberantly. On account of she was beginning to feel exuberantly . . . ah, exuber
ant
, she meant . . . thanks to the effects of the too hastily consumed martini. Not to mention the even more hastily consumed Bourbon. “I never knew the history of the soup bowl included so many fascinating anecdotes.”

“Mmm,” Dean replied, clearly not wanting her to repeat any of those anecdotes. Not that Natalie would, since she was making this up as she went along.

She nodded enthusiastically. On account of she was beginning to feel enthusiastically . . . ah, enthusias
tic
, she meant . . . thanks to . . . Well, she couldn’t quite remember why she felt so enthusiastically and exuberantly at the moment, but she was sure that, whatever the reason was, it was a good one. “I gotta tell ya, Dean, that day changed my life
forever
. Woo.”

Fortunately, before she was forced to describe how, exactly, the history of the soup bowl had changed her life, their waiter reappeared with their drinks and placed all three of them—clearly he had realized she was serious about needing two, so he must have waited on Dean before—on the table between them. The two martinis looked delectably frosty and tempting, but she made herself wait. Oblivion would come soon enough, if not from alcohol, then from having to listen to Dean for more than fifteen minutes straight.

The waiter smiled at Natalie in a way that made her realize he had indeed waited on Dean before and understood her reason for needing two double martinis. In spite of that, he told her, “I took the liberty of putting a hold on your dinner, miss, so that the gentleman’s would come out at the same time and the two of you could eat together.”

At this, the waiter turned to Dean, rightfully expecting some show of appreciation from him. But Dean only gave the menu a perfunctory glance and said, “Bring me the fi let. Medium rare. And a glass of the Silver Hill shiraz with dinner.” Then he fairly flung the menu at their server without looking at him.

So Natalie smiled at the waiter as best she could and said, “Thank you. For everything.”

He dipped his head in both acknowledgment and appreciation before departing, and, amazingly, didn’t kick Dean in the shin under the table, which was what Natalie wanted to do.

She enviously watched their server leave, miraculously refraining from shouting after him, “Wait! Take me with you!” Then she looked at Dean, who was doing the eyebrow thing again. She pulled both martinis closer, curled her fingers possessively around one of them, and waited with great anticipation for Dean to open his mouth again.

 

 

IT TOOK FINN ALL OF TEN SECONDS AFTER ENTERING the restaurant with Russell to see Natalie Beckett seated at a table on the far side of the room. An intimate table for two, he couldn’t help noticing, which she was sharing with someone who, judging by the guy’s expression and that arched eyebrow, appeared to be pretty damned intimate with her. He was exactly the kind of man Finn would expect Natalie Beckett to be intimate with, too, from the expertly and expensively cut hair to the expertly and expensively tailored duds. Finn had been shopping with Russell often enough to recognize a suit with a four-figure price tag when he saw one. And the guy with Natalie wore one even better than Russell did. Probably because he’d been groomed for things like that since childhood, where Russell and Finn had spent their childhood doing things like, oh . . . trying to survive.

As luck—Finn’s luck lately, anyway—would have it, the maître d’ led him and Russell to the table directly behind the one where Natalie and her date were seated. And—of course—Russell claimed the chair that left Finn sitting where it would be impossible for him to miss watching Natalie and her date. Especially Natalie, who was facing him on the other side of the table she occupied with—had Finn mentioned this?—the guy who was her
date
. What was surprising was that Natalie didn’t notice Finn right off. Uh . . . he meant she didn’t notice right off that Russell, the man she wanted to score for her big to-do, was sitting at the next table. Clearly she was so besotted with her companion that the rest of the world had faded away.

However, with closer inspection—and, it went without saying that Finn inspected the couple more closely—he realized it might not be that Natalie was besotted with the guy who was her date so much as she was, well . . . sotted by at least one of the two martinis sitting in front of her.

Why would she have two drinks when the one she was drinking was only half-empty? Was it happy hour? Two-for-one cocktails? Finn looked around at everyone else in the restaurant, but everyone else who was imbibing claimed just one glass. Only Natalie had two. So, was the guy trying to get her drunk? If so, he seemed to be succeeding, judging by the dreamy look on her face. But then, why would the guy have to get Natalie drunk, when she was obviously there with him by choice, and—
Face it, Finn
— Mr. Four Figure Suit obviously wasn’t the kind of guy who had to resort to things like getting his date drunk to take advantage of her.