Neck & Neck (4 page)

Okay, so maybe she wasn’t a call girl. Call girls didn’t blush, and their hands didn’t shake when they brushed their hair out of their eyes. She was still plenty suspicious. Even more so now. Because if she wasn’t looking for Russell to offer up her services—and if she wasn’t going to ask Finn about the way to San José, which he was pretty sure was unlikely—then why was she sneaking peeks at him and being so obvious about not wanting him to catch her staring?

He covered the last bit of distance that separated them in three easy strides and came to a stop in front of her. Then, knowing he was about as good at being inconspicuous as she was, he asked point-blank, “Can I help you, miss?”

Before he even completed the question, he noticed a soft scent about her, nothing too overpowering or heavy, just a nice, delicate fragrance reminiscent of something that was unsullied and sweet. It was totally at odds with the va-va voom look of her, and that just captured his interest even more.

“It’s Ms., actually,” she said. Her voice was in keeping with her femme fatale mystique, all smoky and whiskey rough. But her smile was more suited to the blush he’d noted a moment ago, way more virtue than vixen. Okay, maybe not a call girl, after all, he thought. More was the pity. Not that he’d intended to let her get near Russell, but hey, Finn had needs, too.

“Ms. Beckett,” she added. “Natalie Beckett.”

She extended her hand in a way that was surprisingly professional, and, automatically, Finn shook it. Also automatic was the way he dropped his glance to the left hand that remained at her side—to the ring finger of her left hand, to be precise—to see if she was wearing a wedding band. There wasn’t anything resembling a symbol of marital bliss—or marital misery, for that matter—on that finger, but it, along with several others, were decorated with gemstones that might have indicated it was an engagement ring.

Although why he was even bothering to make note of that—other than that he was always curious about the status of beautiful women, and this one was certainly that—he couldn’t have said. For some reason, though, he was oddly relieved to discover that she was a
Ms
. who wasn’t a
Mrs
.

The relief was short-lived, however. Because since Ms. Natalie Beckett probably wasn’t a fallen woman, there was an even better chance that she was something even more heinous, the sort of woman it was absolutely essential Finn keep away from Russell. Not the hookers, who were at least up front about having sex for money, and they called the price right off the bat. And not the gold diggers who were pretty much the same but behaved with more subtlety. It wasn’t the bad girls who were Russell’s downfall, even though the bad girls were the ones he sought out the minute he arrived in any given town. It was the
nice
girls Russell was most susceptible to. And it was
nice
girls Russell had made Finn promise to keep away. Very, very,
very
far away.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Beckett?”

“Call me, Natalie, please.”

He hesitated a telling moment before asking, “Why would I need to call you anything at all?”

Her smile fell some, but she bravely rescued it. “Because, Mr. Guthrie, I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

He arched a brow at that, but not because of her Mafia esque announcement. “You know my name,” he said.

“I do,” she concurred. “And I know what service you perform for Mr. Mulholland.”

Not that it took a genius to conclude he worked a security detail for Russell after the piece and photo in yesterday’s paper, but his name hadn’t been included in the article, nor had he been designated as a bodyguard. And although it wasn’t impossible to find out who headed up security for Russell Mulholland, both Finn and his employer took great pains to keep as many of their security guards’ names as private as possible. It was just another way to add an extra layer to the Mulhollands’ safety. But even beyond all that, it bothered Finn that Natalie Beckett had learned his name before he learned hers. It made him feel like he wasn’t doing his job.

“You’re Finnian Michael Guthrie,” she said, jarring him even more. Almost no one knew his full name. “And you work as head of security for Russell Mulholland. You both grew up in Seattle, so I assume your paths crossed there somewhere at some point.” She smiled coyly, and something inside Finn twisted tight . . . though not necessarily in a bad way. “I assume that,” she said, “because, well . . .” She smiled again. “Beyond the things I just revealed, it gets a little murky trying to learn more about the two of you.”

She leaned in a little closer than Finn liked, and not just because it enabled him to fill his lungs with the sweet, clean scent of her, either. “I did manage to dig up a few interesting tidbits, though,” she whispered conspiratorially. She leaned back again and added in her normal—husky, sexy—voice, “I must say, though, you and Mr. Mulholland have managed to keep buried just about everything that ever happened to either of you pre-Mulholland Games, Inc. It was only after the GameViper came out that you start showing up regularly on Google. What’s really interesting is that you are almost every bit as Googleable as Mr. Mulholland, even though he is by far the bigger celebrity.”

As she spoke, one by one, every alarm in Finn’s ample arsenal began to go off. Russell paid an exorbitant amount of money to keep any references to himself pre-Mulholland Games, Inc., off the Internet. Had the guy realized how successful the company would someday be, he doubtless would have changed his name a long time ago. But it was what it was, and they’d had to make do. Thankfully, there were people out there whose life’s work was keeping outrageously wealthy people outrageously hidden in cyberspace, as long as those people paid an outrageously large amount of money for the service.

Somehow, Finn managed to keep his own voice mild and conversational when he asked, “Are you a reporter? Or writing a book about Mr. Mulholland or something?”

She laughed lightly at that, the sort of laugh that normally made a man think he was about to pay a lot more for dinner than he had planned to spend on a first date. Clearly she was beginning to feel more comfortable with the situation. Whatever that situation was. Which was ironic, because Finn was growing more uneasy with every passing second.

“No,” she told him. “I’m an event planner.”

He relaxed at her admission. Some. Russell had been inundated with requests for personal appearances since his arrival in town had been discovered. Hopefully, this would be just one more thing to decline, and then Ms. Natalie Beckett, who may or may not have an engagement ring on her finger, would be on her merry way.

He and Russell had done their best to keep the Mulhollands’ arrival in Louisville under wraps for as long as possible, just as they did whenever Russell and his son traveled together or when Russell traveled alone. Whenever either Mulholland had gone out, they’d done so with a bare minimum of security—at least, until the other day—and they’d all dressed and acted as if they were simply a group of friends out for a good time. They’d hired a handful of guys who looked ten years younger than they actually were to accompany Max, as if they were friends of the fourteen-year-old. They never booked rooms under anyone’s real name, and they never booked them all at one time. But in spite of all the precautions, there was invariably someone on the staff of any given hotel or restaurant who recognized Russell, and once he was recognized, the vultures started circling.

Damn those
People
magazine lists, anyway.

“An event planner,” Finn repeated blandly, hoping his tone of voice would prevent her from going into detail about whatever event she had planned that she wanted Russell to be a part of.

“That’s right,” she said brightly. Then, clearly not picking up on that tone-of-voice thing, she continued, “I’ve organized a party for Derby Eve that’s going to be the hottest ticket in town, and I’d like to extend a personal invitation to Mr. Mulholland to attend.” Before Finn could utter another word, she was whipping an envelope from her purse and extending it toward him. As she did, she added, “And do please tell your employer he’s free to bring as many of his, ah . . .
friends
”—she punctuated the overly emphasized word with a quick wink—“as he’d like to bring. Normally, there’s a five hundred dollar fee for the party, but—”

Finn wasn’t able to mask his surprise over that. He interrupted, “You want to invite my employer to a party, and then charge him money, to the tune of five hundred bucks, to attend? That’s nuts.”

This time, she did pick up on his tone of voice, because she halted midsentence with her mouth hanging open and blinked a few times, as if a too-bright flash had gone off before her eyes. Then she stammered, “I . . . it’s . . . I mean . . . the party is for a good cause. It’s a fund-raiser. The hostess is donating all proceeds to—”

“Thank you, Ms. Beckett, but no thanks,” Finn said, interrupting her again. It didn’t matter where the proceeds of the party would be going. What mattered was that Russell
wouldn’t
be. “Mr. Mulholland has a very full schedule while he’s in town. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to attend your party. But,” he added as he plucked the invitation out of her hands, deliberately folded it into uneven quarters, smashed it down with both hands, and stuffed it with total disregard into his back pocket, “I’ll talk to his assistant about sending around a check.”

She looked nonplussed and not a little ruffled at his reaction. Her smile fell as quickly as her expression, and she studied him in unmistakable disbelief, as if she had been absolutely confident that a simple invitation accompanied by a sweet smile and plunging neckline would win her the outcome she’d expected.

Obviously, someone thought very highly of herself.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Beck,” he continued, deliberately calling her by the wrong name, “I was just on my way out for a bite.”

And with that, Finn brushed past her without sparing her a second glance. Unfortunately, he didn’t think he’d be quite so successful in not sparing her a second thought. Or a third thought. Or a fourth. Because Natalie Beckett really did have a sweet smile. And it didn’t go with the plunging neckline at all.

Sugar and spice, he thought as he exited the Brown Hotel and began to make his way down Fourth Street. He’d never been able to resist either.

 

 

NATALIE WATCHED FINN GUTHRIE’S LEISURELY RETREATING backside until it disappeared through the revolving door that led from the Brown lobby to the street. And she thought,
Damn. His backside is even nicer to look at than his front side.

Then she remembered how easily and carelessly he’d dismissed her. “It’s Beckett,” she said softly in the direction of the hotel exit. “Natalie. Beckett.” To herself, she added,
Thanks so much for your consideration. Jerk.

And she’d been so suave, too.

She sighed. She really hadn’t thought it would be that easy to get Russell Mulholland to accept her invitation to Clementine’s party. But she hadn’t thought it would be as difficult as Finn Guthrie wanted to make it, either. She’d thought he would at least offer some vague assurance that he’d give the invitation to Mr. Mulholland, not Mr. Mulholland’s assistant. And then, you know, actually pass it along to Mr. Mulholland. Not that Natalie didn’t appreciate the offer of a donation, mind you, since it would up the buck and a half Clementine’s take was looking to be at this point. But she had thought Mulholland’s bodyguard would at least help get the invitation physically into the billionaire’s hand. And then the billionaire would read the wittily written inscription, see the wittily conceived theme, and be unable to resist coming to the affair, if only for a little while.

Thirty minutes, she thought. If she could just get a commitment from Russell Mulholland to stop by Clementine’s party for thirty minutes, it would be enough for her to spin it into a major event that would bring people out of the woodwork to attend.

She looked at the door through which Finn Guthrie had just exited and marveled again at what a very disagreeable man he was. Not only had he been rude, but he was unkempt. He’d gone so long without shaving that the lower half of his face was shadowed like a Mack truck. His blue jeans were more rip than denim, and his T-shirt had barely fit. Okay, so maybe that last was because they probably didn’t make T-shirts in size XX
OMGX
B—X-tra, X-tra,
Oh-my-God-X-tra
Brawny—but that was beside the point. The point was . . .

She sighed heavily. The point was that she had once again been dismissed as if she were no more important than a piece of lint. And this time it was by a guy who had smoky gray bedroom eyes and silky brown tousled hair and arms cambered with swells of muscle. No, wait. That wasn’t why she felt so hurt. It was because this time it was by a guy who was a worse dresser than Larry the Cable Guy. And he hadn’t even offered the slightest indication that he wanted to git ’er done.

How could someone of Russell Mulholland’s stature trust his security—or, even more surprisingly, his
son’s
security—to a man like that? And why hadn’t she been able to find out more about either of them on the Internet? It was as if neither of them had existed prior to the launch of the GameViper. What was up with that? Even Natalie, when she Googled herself, showed up in links to websites where her name was on the guest list of a party she attended years ago, or on the committee of some function she had helped organize. But Mulholland and Guthrie? Nothing.

She glanced down at her watch and looked up at the door again. He only had a few minutes’ head start on her. And he’d said he was going out for a bite. She did some quick mental math. There were probably a dozen restaurants between here and Fourth Street Live, and Fourth Street Live claimed more than a dozen more. Still, considering the way he was dressed, that narrowed the choices some. Maybe if she hurried . . .