Neck & Neck (13 page)

“But the charity Mrs. Hotchkiss is trying to raise money for is an
excellent
one that does wonderful work.”

“I’m sure,” Russell said dryly. “Look, I’m sorry, Miss Beckett, but I never, ever, under any circumstances, attend such affairs. I’m sorry. But I’ll have my assistant send around a donation if you’ll leave the information with Finn.”

“I’ve already left the information with Finn,” she said morosely.

She started to say something else, but Waterman cut her off with a hastily interjected, “Well, now that that’s settled, where were we? Oh, yes, we were talking about me.”

Actually, they hadn’t been talking about Waterman at all, but Finn figured it would be pointless to try and dissuade the guy of such an idea.

“I’m not surprised you ran into Natalie here at the Brown, Guthrie,” he said, “since she actually spends quite a lot of her time here.” At this, he threw her a salacious look that was nothing short of disturbing. “She actually spends a lot of time here. She’s always hoping she’ll run into me.”

Finn looked at Natalie for confirmation, but she only picked up her martini and enjoyed another swallow, less dainty than before.

Waterman reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “She adores me,” he told the two men.

Natalie had been about to put down her drink, but before it made it to the table, the glass was at her mouth again.

“In fact,” Waterman continued, “ever since we were in cotillion class together as kids—”

Cotillion class?
Finn echoed to himself. Jeez, she really
was
a debutante. Or, at least, had been once upon a time.

“—she’s wanted me.”

Back went the glass to Natalie’s mouth again, only this time, it was empty. Which was just as well, since she’d obviously had more than enough. Nevertheless, when she lowered the glass again, she frowned at it in great disappointment, as if the martini had just betrayed her in the most egregious way. If she raised her hand to signal the waiter for another, he thought, Finn would intercept the drink before she could get to it. Hell, the way she was at this point, he’d be able to gesture over her shoulder and say, “Hey! Isn’t that reclusive billionaire Russell Mulholland?” and she’d doubtless turn around and say, “Where? I’ve been looking all over for that guy.”

Thankfully, she didn’t signal the waiter for another drink. Instead, she seized what was left of Waterman’s in both hands and, before anyone could stop her, drained it. And, judging by the amber color of the beverage, Finn was going to go out on a limb and say it wasn’t the same thing she had been drinking all evening. Then she slammed the glass back down on the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand with all the decorum of Gabby Hayes.

Her gaze darting between each of the men, she said softly, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

And then she was jumping up from her chair with enough gusto to send it toppling to the ground behind her. She didn’t even seem to notice. She just grabbed the edge of the table for a minute, clearly needing to get her bearings, or something, then she carefully—whoa,
very
carefully—started making her way across the room.

Finn watched her pick her way cautiously—whoa,
very
cautiously—through the tables, working way too hard to find what should have been a fairly obvious straight line to the women’s room. When she got to the little alcove nestled behind a couple of potted palms, she swayed into one of the plants, nearly knocking it over, but grabbed it before it went down completely. The action caused her to drop her purse, and when she bent to pick it up—bent, not stooped, the way any woman in a dress that short would do, were she in her right mind—she nearly took the same kind of tumble the palm almost had. She managed to right herself, but had to flatten one hand against the wall to steady herself before she could go any farther. Finally, she moved forward, putting one foot carefully in front of the other, and disappeared into the restroom.

For a really long time.

Best-case scenario, Finn thought, she’d make it back to the table—eventually—in much the same way she’d left it, down what was left of his and Russell’s drinks, eat her dinner, then fall face-first into her tiramisu. Worst-case scenario, she was in one of those stalls right now, having an argumentative exchange with Ralph the porcelain god of regurgitation. And losing.

Somebody probably ought to check on her. And probably, that somebody should be Waterman. Finn looked over at the big jerk . . . ah, at the guy . . . ready to suggest just that, but Waterman, evidently used to this sort of behavior from Natalie—or maybe just not caring—was yammering at Russell about investments again, and Russell had an expression on his face that told Finn he was thinking about female mud wrestlers and probably had been for some time.

So what could Finn do but go check on Natalie himself?

“Excuse me,” he said to his two companions, even though he was pretty sure neither one of them heard him or even noticed when he stood up. He followed the path Natalie had made toward the women’s room, but halfway there, he saw her emerge . . . then bump into a small table beneath a mirror in the alcove before grabbing it with both hands to steady herself. Again. He smiled when she turned to the mirror and lifted a hand nonchalantly to her hair, as if she’d meant to slam her hip into the table all along. For good measure, she also opened her purse and withdrew a lipstick, then studied her reflection as she deliberately—whoa,
very
deliberately—refreshed the color on her mouth.

Her ripe, luscious mouth.

By the time Finn arrived in the alcove, she looked completely put together, if not entirely sober. Amazing. Even in her inebriated state, she’d managed to get her lipstick on perfectly. Her eyes still had that glazed look, though, and her smile was a little off-kilter. Then, when she saw Finn’s reflection in the mirror behind her and spun around to look at him, the rest of her was off-kilter, too. He managed to catch her before she went down or knocked anything over, but where he would have thought she would immediately right herself again and pretend like nothing happened, she instead let herself fall against him. She flattened her hands against his chest and tucked her head into the hollow of his throat, tilting it back a bit so that her face was turned up toward his. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were curled into a soft smile, and when she sighed—with much contentment, he couldn’t help noting . . . and liking—her warm breath caressed his neck, making something inside him cinch into a hard knot.

Not that he wanted to discourage her or anything, but . . .

“Natalie?” he said softly.

“Mmmm-hmmm?” she murmured against his neck.

“Are you, um . . . Are you okay?”

She nodded slowly. “Mmmm-hmmm.”

She punctuated the statement by snuggling her body even closer to his, something he wouldn’t have thought possible, making that knot in his belly pull tighter still.

“You sure?”

Well, hell. Now what was he supposed to do? He told himself he should walk her back to the table, ply her with coffee, and instruct Waterman to take her home. Then he wondered if he could trust Waterman. Sure, the guy
said
Natalie was hung up on him. And she hadn’t exactly disagreed. Then again, she hadn’t confirmed it, either . . .

“So,” he began experimentally. “What’s the story with you and Mr. Four Figure Suit?”

She opened her eyes at that but arrowed her brows downward in confusion. “Who?” Then, before Finn could reply, she answered her own question. “Ooooh. You mean Dean.”

Finn nodded. She nodded, too, but he didn’t think it was for any reason other than that it was the only way she could stay focused on his face.

“Dino,” she continued, smiling. Probably her pet name for him, Finn couldn’t help thinking. Then she continued, “The Deanster. The Deanmeister. Dean-a-rino. Dean-o-mite.” Okay, so obviously she had a lot of pet names for the guy. Probably just went to show how crazy she was about him.

The big jerk.

She started laughing, then halted abruptly. “The Deanmeister wants to marry me. In fact, my mother’s already got the wedding date written on her calendar. In ink. The way she has it all figured out, by this time next year, I’ll be signing in at the Junior League meetings as Mrs. Dean Waterman.”

Finn was in no way prepared for the punch to the gut her announcement brought with it. What the hell . . . ? She was
engaged
to the guy? To be
married
?

He had no idea what to say in response to that bombshell. Nor did he have any idea why it even
was
a bombshell. What did he care if Natalie Beckett was engaged? To a big jerk? He’d just met her, for God’s sake. And it wasn’t like he was in any position to ask her out himself, anyway. He was only going to be in town for two weeks. And, hell, it was his job to keep her as far away from Russell as he could. He’d probably never see her again after tonight.

Before he could say anything, though, Natalie closed her eyes again. Then she went completely limp in his arms. Finn enjoyed one brief, extremely satisfying moment when he thought maybe she was throwing herself at him, and he automatically tightened his arms around her waist. And he tried not to notice, really he did, how she was soft in all the places he was hard, and curved in all the places he was angled, yet somehow their bodies fitted together perfectly.

Then he realized that she hadn’t gone limp because she was trying to get closer to him. She’d gone limp because she was passed out cold. Like boom-boom-out-go-the-lights cold. Which left him standing in an alcove holding an unconscious—and sexy and beautiful—woman in his arms, who belonged to another man. A man who was sitting just across the room. A man Natalie Beckett was engaged to marry.

WELL, HELL. NOW WHAT WAS HE SUPPOSED TO DO?

Finn looked past the potted palm, across the restaurant to where Waterman was
still
yammering at Russell, and where Russell was lifting his hand to signal to the waiter that he wanted another drink. Evidently, it was an effect the guy had on everyone who encountered him.

Then Finn looked back at Natalie. Her head still rested against his chest, but now it was positioned the way a newborn’s would be, as if her neck muscles were months away from maturity. Her face was still tilted toward him, but now she was quite obviously oblivious. In spite of that, there was a not-so-little part of him that wouldn’t have minded standing here like this for the rest of the evening, because she just felt so damned good to hold. And what did that say about Finn, that even holding a woman who was unconscious of the embrace felt good? He was pathetic. Besides, if they stood here like this for the rest of the evening, it would just be courting neck cramps for both of them.

He dipped his head so that his mouth was just above her ear. “Natalie,” he said softly. “Wake up.”

She offered not even the slightest hint that she’d heard him. So he lifted his hand and cupped his palm against her cheek and tried not to notice how soft and warm her skin was beneath his palm. “Natalie,” he said again, a little more loudly. “Come on, sweetheart, wake up.”

Again, she offered no sign that she heard him. She just remained limp in his arms, her body pressing intimately against his. Well, it would be intimate if she was conscious, anyway.

He tried one last time to rouse her. Tapping her cheek lightly with the pad of his index finger, and trying not to notice how soft and warm her skin was beneath his, he said, “Earth to Natalie. Come in, Natalie. Your table is ready.”

No luck. She was
out
.

There were more than a few ways he could play this. He could try dragging her around the alcove a couple of times in another effort to rouse her. Or he could drag her back into the women’s room, out of the public eye, make her as comfortable as possible, then go tell Waterman what had happened so the guy could take her home. Or he could drag her back to the table so that Waterman could deduce the problem for himself and take her home. Or Finn could toss her over his shoulder and hope no one noticed, then take her up to his room where she could sleep it off in privacy and comfort. Of course, if he did that, she still wouldn’t be in any shape to drive once she woke up, meaning he’d have to drive her home in her car and then take a cab back to the hotel.

Obviously that last idea was the most complicated, most likely to draw attention, and the least convenient to Finn. The best choice was probably the second one, where he moved her back into the restroom and told Waterman what had happened.

He looked past Natalie at Waterman again. Finn had no idea why, but he didn’t trust the guy at all. He didn’t care if he and Natalie were engaged to be married. There was just something fundamentally suspect about the guy. Finn had had good instincts about people since he was a kid—he’d had to, growing up the way he had—and he just couldn’t quite bring himself to hand Natalie over to her fiancé in her current condition.

Okay. Option four—sleeping it off in his suite—it would have to be.

With another quick glance at the dining room to be sure no one—especially Waterman—was watching, he scooped her up and over his shoulder, firefighter rescue style. Then he did his best not to look too obvious as he made his way toward and through the restaurant’s exit, to a nearby bank of elevators, where he thumbed the Up button.

Well, what the hell else was he supposed to do? This was the only way he’d be able to be sure that she made it home safely. It had nothing to do with his wanting to see where she lived. And it
really
didn’t have anything to do with the possibility of spending a little more time with her. She was unconscious, for God’s sake. Not exactly a stellar way to spend a first date. Not that this was a date, he hurried to remind himself. And even if she had been conscious—and even if this had been a date—it wasn’t like he could have a meaningful conversation with her in her current state. And what else was there to do?