Neck & Neck (24 page)

She chuckled at that. “Yeah, right. Spoken like the only guy in the world who goes for the wholesome look more than the lady of the night.” Then, because that made it sound like Russell found her attractive—which they both knew wasn’t true, as evidenced by his use of the word
lovely
for her, which men only used in reference to a maiden aunt—she hurried on, “It’s not just for the better tips. It’s for . . . protection.” For both her and Maisy, but she didn’t mention her daughter. “A lot of guys come into Minxxx. And a lot of them—most of them, really—are just your everyday, average sort of guy. They just have this icky side to them that makes them objectify women and visit strip clubs.”

“Are you calling me icky?” Russell interjected.

She threw him a look that said he should already know the answer to that, since she’d just spelled it out for him. Nevertheless, she clarified, “Just one side of you.”

His mouth dropped open in astonishment at that. “And you think I objectify women?”

Again, already answered, she thought. What was it with men that they had to have things hammered home so hard? “Oh, absolutely,” she agreed without a qualm.

His mouth dropped open again, but he closed it quickly this time. He studied her intently, but his expression was bland, so she honestly didn’t know how he was taking her assessment of him. But what was she supposed to do, lie? Any guy who visited strip clubs was icky on some level. And they did objectify women. At least a healthy segment of the female population. Or worse, they had that whole Madonna-whore thing going on, which was just as bad. Maybe worse.

“Anyway,” she continued, “they’re the kind of guy it would be very easy for me to run into in some other area of my life. If I worked in my usual skin, those guys would recognize me in my usual skin. I mean, I could just be standing in the grocery store, trying to decide between Froot Loops and Cocoa Puffs—” Or, worse, she thought, she could be at a parent association function at school. “And some guy could come up behind me, grab my ass and say, ‘Yo, AmBER! You looked great in that plastic miniskirt at the strip club last night. You wanna earn a quick twenty bucks now?’ ” She shook her head and reached for her champagne. “I mean, who needs that crap, you know?”

Still looking at her in that maddeningly unremarkable way, he reached for his drink and drained what was left in it, then held the glass aloft without comment or fanfare, only to have it immediately removed by a passing waiter whom he acknowledged in no way. Unbelievable, Ginny thought. He literally had people at his beck and call. The waiter then filled his champagne glass, topped off hers, and conveniently disappeared again.

Russell lifted his champagne glass as if he were going to make a toast, leaning it toward hers. Not sure what he was going to say, she mimicked his action anyway, carefully resting the lip of her glass against his.

“To sweet excess,” he said.

She grinned. “To sweet excess,” she echoed.

They both sipped their champagne, their gazes never disengaging. When Russell set his glass back on the table again, he asked, “Will you tell me your real name, Amber?”

“No,” she replied immediately. When his mouth tightened at her response, she added, “Look, it’s nothing personal. I never give my real name to anyone who’s not going to be part of my life.”

“That protection thing you mentioned?”

She nodded. “A girl can never protect herself enough. Especially not a—” She’d started to say
a girl like me
but stopped herself. She’d learned a long time ago that the women who worked at Minxxx did so for a lot of different reasons. A lot of them were supporting addictions. But a lot of them were supporting kids. Or men. Or parents. You couldn’t just lump them all into a group and say they were alike, any more than you could lump a bunch of anybody else into a group and say they were all alike.

But Russell finished for her, saving her the dilemma. “Especially not a cocktail waitress who has to wait on icky, women-objectifying men?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Especially not one of those.”

Still focusing his attention on her face, he traced the base of his glass slowly with his middle finger, an action that drew her attention downward. She would have thought he would have soft hands, sissy hands, all manicured and tended and never used for anything except holding cell phones and champagne flutes. Instead, they looked like a working man’s hands, their nails clipped short, not particularly elegant, and the one holding the glass had a small scar on the back. They could have been a laborer’s hands. They were just that sexy.

And the way that hand in particular was moving made it sexier still. With his middle finger, he made a slow circle around the glass’s base, then skimmed it upward, along the fragile stem. At the lower curve of the bowl of the glass, he brought his thumb and index finger into the action, caressing the delicate flute as tenderly as he would a woman’s breast.

And that was all it took for her to wonder what it would be like to have him touching her the same way, stroking the pads of his sexy fingers along her sensitive flesh. Which was weird, because Ginny never wondered about that kind of thing at all anymore. Not with any man. What was even weirder was that, thinking about it now, with Russell being that man, a flutter of something she hadn’t felt for a very long time quivered to life inside her, sending a lovely rush of warmth purling through her entire body.

“Well then, shall we get our evening started?” he asked quietly. “I believe you said you wanted to order one of everything on the menu. And I’m sure you’ve made a list of other places you’d like to visit this evening?”

She nodded, tamping down the odd response he’d generated inside her. “All of them not far from here,” she told him. “Crescent Hill is only a stone’s throw, and there are a million places there: L & N Wine Bar, Volare, Varanese . . . lots of others. And then we can top off the night by circling back downtown to Proof on Main.”

“I’ve read about that last,” he said. “It’s in a hotel, isn’t it?”

“Yes, 21C Museum Hotel, to be exact,” she told him. “The museum part is way cool.”

“I’ll bet the hotel part has a lot to recommend it, too.”

Oh, she knew where this was going. Or where Russell
thought
it was going. Not that she was going to let that happen. She may have lost the upper hand a long time ago, and maybe her plan that he wouldn’t find her attractive in her normal skin had backfired—obviously the only prerequisite he had for a woman was that she be breathing—but she wasn’t so far gone that she had any intention of getting a room with the guy.

“I wouldn’t know,” she told him. “I’ve never visited that part.”

This time, he was the one to grin. “Well, it sounds like it’s going to be a night of firsts for you, doesn’t it?”

She did laugh then. “Sorry, Russ, but somebody got to me a looooong time before tonight.”

Of course, he had to have guessed that already. What he didn’t know was how few men there had been since then. Not that she intended to tell him that. Let him think she was promiscuous and easy. For now, anyway. They had a whole night ahead of them. And she intended to take advantage of it—and of Russell—for as long as she could.

DEAN’S CONDO AT WATERFRONT PARK PLACE WAS A showpiece, Natalie had to concede, as she gazed out the wide windows that faced the river and made up nearly an entire wall of his living room. His was on one of the top floors, which meant he had not only stunning river views like this, but a spectacular vista of the city on another side, as well. And, as an added bonus, he could watch Bats games at Slugger Field across the way just by taking a beer out to his patio and pulling one of the chaises closer to the railing. Of course, he’d paid seven figures for the place, but then, he could afford it.

The interior was every bit as impressive as the views . . . and as different from Natalie’s decor as Natalie was from Dean. Except that where Natalie, like Dean’s decor, was tasteful and aesthetically pleasing, Dean, um, wasn’t.

Ahem.

He’d eschewed the color Natalie liked in favor of neutrals, and the angles of her Craftsman style were Euro-chic curves here, the mocha-colored walls offsetting the taupe furnishings nicely. The only thing remotely resembling color in the place was in the artwork on the walls—all original, all by up-and-coming local artists, none Dean had picked out himself, since he didn’t know a thing about art. But even there, most of the pieces were abstract geometric shapes or broad slashes of oil on canvas. One or two were of objects Natalie could sort of distinguish, but since she was pretty sure they were human body parts, she tried not to look too hard.

She’d only been at his place twice before, both times as a guest at parties he’d thrown to impress someone, so she knew he went all out when it came to entertaining. She also knew that because he’d asked her to arrange both of them. However, he hadn’t offered to
pay
her to arrange them, even though both had taken place after she’d launched Party Favors. He’d thought she would be flattered to play hostess—and organizer—because he wanted to make her his missus, and that was what missusses—missussi?—did, even before they were officially missusses or missussi or whatever they became after marrying Dean. Other than irritable, she meant.

Tonight was no different, even though only a fraction of his usual guest list was coming. (It was also no different in that Natalie had told him no when he’d asked her to put it together for free in exchange for that whole missus thing again.) And it went without saying that he’d fabricated this whole dinner party on the spur of the moment in the first place after meeting Russell Mulholland. But he—or, rather, his caterer, whom he
was
paying, since it was a guy, thereby making the whole missus thing moot, not to mention illegal in the state of Kentucky despite the Fairness Campaign—had pulled it together quickly and with great excess. Dean had ordered six courses—and a different wine for each—along with hors d’oeuvres and cocktails before.

He had told Natalie that he could see right through her hard-to-get act again with the not planning the party unless she was getting paid, but had deigned to allow her to play hostess by his side anyway to show there were no hard feelings. And he’d instructed her to come a half hour before any of the guests, so that she’d be on hand when everyone arrived. So it went without saying that she’d knocked on his front door with barely ten minutes to spare before party time.

Still, it was ten minutes too many, as far as she was concerned, since the social circle she and Dean traveled in was always fashionably late. She probably should have arrived tomorrow instead. That way, Dean would be at work, and no one would have answered.

Gee, hindsight really was twenty-twenty.

Of course, then she would have missed her only chance for a second chance with Russell Mulholland, and she couldn’t miss that. She’d taken special pains with her wardrobe and toilette tonight, but only because she knew he would be here, and she wanted to impress him after the debacle of Monday night. She’d paired black crepe trousers with a silk, sapphire blue wraparound top, had swept her hair into a sleek French twist, and fixed simple sapphire studs in her ears. Her only other jewelry was a sapphire solitaire pendant and gold watch. She’d also toned down her makeup, opting for just mascara and tinted lip gloss. She’d figured maybe understated elegance would win the billionaire over where a short hemline and scooped neck hadn’t been able to—go figure, since the guy was a notorious womanizer, which was why she’d gone that route in the first place. She was also going to make sure she didn’t touch a drop of alcohol tonight.

“Martini,” Dean said as he drew to a stop behind her and extended a beautifully chilled, triangle-shaped glass toward her. “Bombay with a mere shadow of vermouth and two olives, just the way you like it.”

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the glass for the sake of looking the part of hostess and gritting her teeth against the irritation that rose in her belly at having to play second fiddle to Dean.

How had he managed to get Russell Mulholland to come to his place for a boring, last-minute dinner party when she hadn’t been able to land him for Clementine’s big, festive fund-raiser? It made no sense. Natalie may have had too much to drink the other night, but she’d been clearheaded enough at first to see Russell and Finn exchange more than one eye roll over Dean. And yeah, okay, so Natalie hadn’t exactly been the picture of charm, drinking too much and being clearly inebriated. At least her invitation had been for a worthy cause. Dean just wanted Russell here so he could suck up even more than he had the other night.

“I’m so glad you could make it tonight,” Dean said before lifting his own glass to his lips. He paused before completing the action, meeting her gaze levelly before adding, “Even if you didn’t quite make it on time.”

She drove her gaze deliberately around the room, then back to his. “Have any of your guests arrived yet?”

He shook his head. “No. But I could have used your help interceding with the . . . help.”

He spoke the word
help
in the same tone of voice most people used for the words
child molester
. Because for Dean, there was nothing worse than having to talk to people who were paid by the hour. Even ones who were dressed in crisp white shirts and black ties and trousers, like the trio of servers standing at the ready for Natalie and Dean and the four other couples he had invited to come tonight, along with Russell and his guest. There was also a chef and his assistant in the kitchen putting together the night’s courses.

Five people to entertain twelve, Natalie thought. That was a bit much, even for Dean. He really was in major suck-up mode tonight. She’d wager he’d even bought his charcoal pinstriped suit and discreetly patterned blue necktie for the event. The suit just had that crisp, fresh-from-the-tailor’s-garment-bag look about it, and he’d called her yesterday to ask what color she’d be wearing so he could make sure his neckwear was sartorially coordinated.