Neck & Neck (3 page)

Today’s celebrity pickings, she saw, were pretty slim, even though the race—and parties—were just two weeks away. A talk show host from one of those niche cable channels that hardly anyone watched, a sort-of-cute assistant carpenter from a daytime HGTV series, and a marginally successful podcaster.

Ah, what the hell, Natalie thought. It wasn’t like she had a lot of choices.

She was about to head off to Google to see who repped whom when her gaze lit on the sidebar of today’s headlines, and a name popped out at her. A name which, although written in the same tiny font as the rest of the news, and with the same dispassionate reporting, might as well have been etched in gold on her computer monitor in letters eight inches high. And they might as well have been accompanied by a crack of thunder and a bolt of lightning, and the skies splitting open to showcase a chorus of angels belting out a chorus of “Hallelujah.”

Russell Mulholland had come to town.

The headline linked to the Business section page of the website instead of the Features section, which normally highlighted visiting celebrities, so Natalie hadn’t seen the announcement right off. Clicking on the headline now, she discovered that the man who defined the term
reclusive billionaire
had shown up in Louisville at some point earlier in the week, without announcement or fanfare, because he owned a horse that would be running in the Kentucky Derby.

Meaning, she concluded, that he would be here for the two weeks leading up to the race, including Derby Eve. And since no one had known he was coming, there was a chance, however small, that he hadn’t committed to any parties yet. In fact, due to the whole reclusive billionaire thing, even if he had been invited to other parties, there was a good chance he hadn’t accepted any of them, because everybody knew that Russell Mulholland kept a profile that was lower than a wolverine’s burrow, due to his wanting to keep both himself and his teenage son out of the spotlight.

At least, he hadn’t accepted an invitation to any Derby parties
yet
.

Hungrily, Natalie read the rest of the article. Evidently, Mr. Mulholland and his son Max had been spotted crossing the lobby of the Brown Hotel yesterday, surrounded by a cadre of bodyguards, which was the first anyone knew that he had planned to be in Louisville. There was a photograph accompanying the article, but it was virtually impossible to see what Mulholland looked like, because, even if his head hadn’t been bent the way it was, he was wearing a hat and sunglasses, and what was left of his face was obscured by a very large man wearing a very determined expression.

Strangely, it was that man and not the buried billionaire who really captured Natalie’s attention. He stood nearly a head above everyone around him and somehow seemed to be looking everywhere at once. His hair was dark, quite possibly black, and he didn’t appear to have shaved for some time. His clothing was fairly nondescript, what looked like khaki trousers and a dark-colored polo, and shouldn’t have called attention to him. But his rugged good looks coupled with that wary expression simply commanded her gaze.

Security detail,
she thought. The guy had to be one of Mulholland’s bodyguards. No self-respecting reclusive billionaire would travel without security. Or, you know,
exist
without security.

She forced her gaze back to the billionaire, since that was where her attention needed to be. Russell Mulholland had catapulted onto the celebrity scene about a year and a half ago after designing what would become
the
game system of gamers everywhere. The Mulholland GameViper had been talked about for months before it was made available, the gossip and hype turning it into the holy grail of game systems before anyone had even laid a finger on it. When it was finally launched—strategically just a few weeks before Christmas—there had been a frenzy to see who could get their hands on one.

Natalie wasn’t much into gaming herself, but she’d seen on the news how a lot of people had camped outside Best Buy and GameStop stores for days, in freezing temperatures sometimes, in the hopes of scoring a GameViper for themselves. Even at that, few had succeeded. In the year and a half since its introduction, there had been a handful of additional pushes for a limited number of systems, again with the camping outside retailers in an effort to be one of the sacred few who procured one. Between the sale of those systems and the games designed specifically for it—not to mention the way the stock for Mulholland Games, Inc., went straight through the roof—Russell Mulholland had become a billionaire virtually overnight.

He’d become a recluse nearly as quickly.

Natalie had seen photos of him where he
wasn’t
ducking the paparazzi and knew there was a reason why he’d been voted one of
People
magazine’s Most Beautiful People and its Sexiest Man Alive. Blond and blue-eyed, with one of those smiles that made a woman want to melt into a puddle of ruined womanhood at his feet, even without the billions, he was too yummy for words. Add to that the fact that he was a single dad who’d lost his wife to cancer when his son was a toddler, and it warmed even the coldest heart.

According to the article in the paper, one of the things he’d invested his money in was Thoroughbreds, all of whom were named after his games, and one of whom claimed decent odds for winning the Derby. Mulholland had come to town with his teenage son, Max, the article added, but it also cautioned readers not to expect to catch too many glimpses of him, since he had routinely declined all invitations to make appearances at a variety of Derby-related events.

Oh, he had, had he? Well, she’d just see about that. He hadn’t received his invitation to Clementine Hotchkiss’s Derby Eve bash yet.

Her gaze strayed to the big bodyguard again. She wasn’t about to let a little thing like a security detail get between her and Russell Mulholland. The billionaire would be the perfect party favor for Clementine’s gala.
Everyone
knew of “the Mulholland.”
Everyone
wanted to get a glimpse of “the Mulholland.” If Natalie could convince the Mulholland to attend Clementine’s party,
everyone
else would come, too. The Hotchkiss gala would be
the
place to be on Derby Eve, and it would be all people talked about the next day. Natalie would be lauded as the party maven of all party mavens, and Party Favors would be a huge success. Clementine could hand over an even bigger check to Kids, Inc., and Natalie would have jobs out the wazoo.

And Dean Waterman, the slimy little jerk, would be nothing but an oil slick in the darkest recesses of her mind.

IF THERE WAS ONE THING FINN GUTHRIE HAD LEARNED in the eighteen months he had worked as head of security for Russell Mulholland, it was to never underestimate anyone: not the new housekeeper, who’d turned out to be a corporate spy; not the personal chef, who’d turned out to be an autograph hound; not the plumber, who’d turned out to be paparazzi; not the veterinarian, who’d turned out to be a gold digger. When it came to doing his job, Finn Guthrie didn’t trust
anyone
.

Of course, that lack of trust wasn’t necessarily a byproduct of his job, nor did it have much to do with having worked for eighteen months as head of security for Russell Mulholland. It was an essential component of his personality. That was part and parcel for a guy who’d grown up on the streets of one of Seattle’s more notorious neighborhoods, and who’d been paraded through the foster care system, and who’d had more than one run-in with the authorities by the time he turned eighteen. Hell, by the time he turned fifteen. What was ironic was that there had been a time when Finn himself was the sort of person he would in no way trust around Russell or Max Mulholland. But then, there had been a time when Russell couldn’t be trusted, either. And Finn should know, since he and Russell had been friends since they were thrown together more than two decades ago in the same group home at the age of fourteen.

Over the past eighteen months, however, the two men had shared more dubious adventures—and more secrets—than they had even when they were kids. And a big part of Finn’s job, in addition to keeping both Mulhollands physically safe, was guarding the Mulholland secrets. Unfortunately, that was becoming more and more difficult with every passing month. Because with each passing month, the Mulholland wealth and celebrity multiplied significantly, and the Mulhollands’ retreat from society escalated accordingly. And because of that, the determination of the public to uncover everything they could about them became more ravenous.

It wasn’t that Russell
wanted
to be reclusive or hinder his son’s freedom, Finn knew. It was that Russell wanted to keep both of them reasonably sane, reasonably normal, and reasonably safe. When you were worth billions of dollars, there were
a lot
of people who wanted to be your friend, few of whom were actually friendly. There were even more who wanted to see you fail, some of whom so begrudged you your success that they did everything they could to undermine it. And there were some—thankfully, only a handful—who posed a threat. Those, of course, were the ones from whom Finn made it his priority to safeguard Russell and Max. But everyone was always on his radar. Nobody—but nobody—was safe from Finn’s scrutiny or his suspicion.

That included the petite, blond woman standing on the other side of the hotel lobby who kept darting glances in his direction. So indiscreet was her observation, in fact, that she could have been a femme fatale in some film noir, sitting in a chair holding up a newspaper into which she’d cut eye holes. Talk about your screen sirens. Her Veronica Lake hairdo fell in an elegant wave over her forehead, nearly obscuring one eye, and dark crimson lipstick stained her mouth. Her straight black skirt hugged her hips like a second skin, and her low-cut red top hugged the rest of her even better. Throw in the smoky stockings and black, spiky heels, and she was ripe for bringing down even the most jaded gumshoe.

Oh, yeah. She was definitely up to something. No woman dressed that provocatively unless she wanted to provoke. Good thing Finn wasn’t a jaded gumshoe. Good thing he was just a jaded head of security instead.

Nevertheless, as he made his way across the lobby, much less obvious in his approach than she was in her observation, he had to admit he felt kind of like one of those doomed PIs. The Brown Hotel, where Russell had booked rooms for all of them, was something out of a fabulous forties film, from the marble floors to the dark paneled walls and ceiling, to the lush potted palms and overstuffed tapestry furnishings. The place reeked of old money and even older reputation, of wealth and refinement and all the things that made the rich so very different.

Money really did change everything. Hey, just look at Russell. Even Finn, though not the owner of the Mulholland billions, had changed by being a fringe member of this world. For him and Russell, thankfully, that change had been for the better. He couldn’t say that was necessarily true of everyone whose pockets suddenly became lined with cash. All the more reason to shield the Mulhollands—especially young Max—from . . . well, everyone.

The blonde glanced up again, and when she saw Finn drawing nearer, her eyes widened in a panic that was almost comical. Then, abruptly, she spun around. Oh, yeah. Like that wasn’t obvious. But she didn’t bolt, so she clearly wanted to talk to him. About what, Finn could only speculate.

He’d come down from his room because he’d wanted to get something to eat and to scope out an entertainment complex up the street called Fourth Street Live, since it was the sort of place Russell—and fourteen-year-old Max, for that matter—would at some point want to visit. They’d only been in town a couple of days but had spent most of that time getting Russell’s horse TimberLost settled at a Thoroughbred farm in a neighboring county, where he was boarding the animal until they could stable him at Churchill Downs. Louisville nightlife would almost certainly be next on both Mulhollands’ to-do list, though, thankfully, Max’s nightlife would be significantly less lively and infinitely more manageable than his father’s nightlife was bound to be. At fourteen, Max was nowhere near as worldly or as inclined to mischief as his father—and his father’s head of security—had been at that age.

So unless the blonde over there had just been smitten by Finn at first sight, which was highly unlikely, since he hadn’t shaved since his arrival, and he was wearing his most disreputable looking jeans and a T-shirt that said Talk Derby to Me—hey, he wanted to get into the spirit—there was a good chance she’d seen the photo in yesterday’s paper and recognized him as a member of Russell’s entourage. Considering the way they’d been hounded since their arrival had been made public, and considering the fact that nobody ever wanted to talk to Finn—which was, quite possibly, the best perk of his job—it was a safe bet that she was looking at him as a route to Russell, since Russell did everything within his power to be a destination that was way off the beaten path.

Finn studied the woman again, trying to guess her reason for being there. Standing as she was in a spill of late afternoon sunlight that made her hair color alternate from gold to platinum to bronze, she looked like one of those high-maintenance women few men could afford to maintain. If the way she was dressed was any indication—and it went without saying that it was—she was probably looking to offer her, ah, services to Russell while he was in town, and for some laughably exorbitant price. Prices went up for everything in Louisville this time of year, he’d been told. Hotels, restaurants, limos, you name it. Naturally, call girls would raise their rates, too.

Not that Finn wanted to jump to conclusions. Maybe Blondie over there was a Sunday school teacher and the oldest living virgin who just liked to dress as if she were throwing herself on the market to the highest bidder and only wanted to ask Finn if he knew the way to San José.

She turned slightly and looked over her shoulder at him again and, when she saw Finn still approaching, she looked even more panicky than before. To her credit, however, she slowly turned back in his direction and feigned nonchalance. Though it was about as much nonchalance as a jack-hammer operating on broken pistons. She lifted a hand to her hair to scoop it back and away from her face, but the gesture was in no way smooth. In spite of its awkwardness, however, Finn still nearly stumbled as he watched her complete it. Because when she tucked a shoulder-length strand of gold behind one ear, damned if her cheek didn’t look stained by the evidence of a blush.