Call Me! (7 page)

I visualize him sitting at the bar with me.

No. Bar stools are too high. The visual angles are all wrong for bending down to pick up my purse. Of course, I could lean into him, which might give him a quick peek down my top. I’ll keep that in mind, but prefer the sight lines that come with him sitting at a table. Of course, I’ll need to make sure he’s facing the exit. I can bend down to pick up my purse (no, not the Gucci. Even if I’d bought it, which I didn’t, the Gucci’s too expensive for this job). I’ll carry a hundred-dollar faux leather drawstring satchel. When I bend to pick it up, he’ll get a quick flash of cleavage. I’ll turn and walk away with a natural gait, nothing exotic. It’s a biological imperative for men’s eyes to be drawn to a woman’s backside. If I do my job properly, Joe’s eyes will be on my ass like a cheap tattoo.

AN HOUR LATER I’m in my room at the Brundage, waiting for Carter Teague to call. I’m showered, dressed, ready to go. It’s six o’clock.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rings.

“You’re cutting it pretty close,” I say.

“He checked in late. I wanted to make sure he was in his room before I enter the hotel. It wouldn’t do to run into him in the lobby or elevator.”

“You’re spying on him?”

“No, of course not. I told him to call me when he checked in. What’s our room number?”

“You’re sixteen-twenty. I’m sixteen-twenty-two.”

“Leave my door open so I don’t have to knock.”

I do, and moments later she enters the room and closes the door behind her.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” she says.

There’s no reason for me to reassure or dissuade her, so I don’t respond. She uses the momentary pause to check me out.

“You’re not dressed yet?”

“This is what I’m wearing.”

“You’re joking!”

“You’ll have to trust me.”

“You look like a college coed!”

“In that case, we’re good to go.”

She frowns. “Did you use none of the money I gave you to improve your wardrobe?”

I feel my face flush. Carter’s wealthy, I’m not. She’s six years older, knows her fiancé, and I don’t. Still, I know I’m right.

And yet she’s managed to intimidate me.

“It almost sounds as though you
want
him to cheat,” I say.

“Of
course
not! But I want to see him tested.”

“He will be.”

“For fifty-five hundred I was hoping to get your A game.”

I sigh.

“What, are you going to pout now?” she says.

“When I get back, I’ll unlock the connecting door.”

“That doesn’t make sense. If he enters the room with you, what reason could you possibly give for unlocking the door to the adjoining room?”

“I’ll work it out.”

“Leave it unlocked,” Carter says. “If the door is cracked slightly, and my side is open, I’ll hear everything that’s going on.”

“Leave your door open,” I say, “and I’ll unlock my side when I get back.” By way of explanation, I add, “I’ll be gone a couple of hours. I don’t want to take a chance someone might plant video equipment in my room.”

“Well, I can assure you no one will be allowed to enter your room while you’re gone.”

I give her a look.

She says, “
What
? You mean
me
? You think I’d do such a thing?”

“I always enter a game trusting the players,” I say. “But I’d be a fool not to cut the cards.”

“Frankly, I resent your attitude. As well as your choice of wardrobe.”

“Just be ready to burst into the room when the clothes come off.”

“Burst?”

“I have no intention of standing around in my birthday suit any longer than I have to.”

“Shall we use a signal?” she says, mocking me.

“You’ll be able to peek through the crack in the door. The minute we’re both naked, I’m done.”

“You’re awfully full of yourself, aren’t you?” she says.

“I’ll see you later.”

I leave her room, enter mine, then lock the connecting door. Then exit my room, close the door behind me, and test to make sure it’s locked.

It is.

I retrieve my room key from my purse, and swipe it through the lock. And get a red flash. I swipe it again, slower. Green. It clicks, and I open the door, then close it and retry. This time the door opens after one swipe. I close it and try again. One swipe.

Carter opens the door to her room and peeks at me.

“What are you
doing
?”

“It’s a decoy thing,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re a fruitcake, is what you are,” she says.

6:40 P.M.

I take a quick stroll through the bar and restaurant, refreshing the layout in my mind. It’s early for the hotel bar crowd, in fact there are only two businessmen in the bar and both of them turn to acknowledge me. One holds his glass up, as if saluting.

I smile, but keep moving.

Simon Claire’s is elegant, but I can get in dressed like this. I look around and see only three tables serving guests. But it’s early yet. By eight this place will be packed.

I exit the restaurant and stand in the open area between the bar and restaurant, which includes about forty feet of old-world couches and chairs, grouped to encourage pre- and after-dinner conversation. For the time being, I’m alone in this parlor area. Since it’s serviced by the bar, it’s a perfect place to sit and wait. I can sip a drink while appearing to be deeply involved with my texting. I select a chair that overlooks the elevators, the bar, and the entrance to
Simon Claire’s
. To my left there’s a small end table and matching chair.

I cross my legs and pretend to send text messages on my cell phone while eyeing the elevator. After a few minutes a waiter appears to take my order.

“Vodka cranberry,” I say, without looking up.

He hesitates a moment.

I look up and see Joe Fagin standing over me.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I say. “I thought—”

“You thought I was a
waiter
?”

Shit.

“
Seriously
?” he adds.

I laugh. “Can I be honest?”

“Yeah. You can even be
dishonest
, as long as you keep smiling.”

I look down, try to force a blush.

I say, “The truth is, I said that without even looking up.”

“And now that you see me, I look like what?”

“Honestly? You look like a high-powered businessman.”

He bows. “Right answer!” Then he says, “Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be right back.”

He’s gone three minutes. When he comes back he’s carrying two drinks.

“Vodka cranberry for the lady,” he says, “and a bourbon for your lucky date.”

He hands me the vodka and sets the bourbon on the table, next to the empty chair.

“What makes you think I’ve got a date?”

He smiles. “If you don’t, you should.”

“Well, thanks…I think.”

“Do you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have a date?”

“Nope. I’m from Nashville. Just visiting.”

“Your grandmother, I hope.”

“Huh?” I say, pretending to be confused. Then giggle, and flash a shy smile, as if it took me this long to discern his meaning. It’s important for him to think he’s smarter than me. He might be, but in case he isn’t, I want to hedge my bet. It’s also important for me to reel him in, then show him how much fun I am. Reeling him in should be easy, since he’s standing over me. I roll my shoulders slightly forward to give him a glimpse of my bra. I’m a 34-C. Not close to Carter’s size, but hers are a product of scientific engineering.

Call me paranoid, but I don’t trust strange men who bring me drinks. So I say, “I’ve never tasted bourbon, but I’d like to try it. Here,” I say, handing him the vodka. “Taste mine, and I’ll taste yours.”

His eyes are dancing as he takes a sip, and I expect he’s considering making a nasty remark about tasting mine. He decides not to, then a strange expression appears on his face.

“That was damn clever of you,” he says.

I look at him with innocent eyes while he adds, “Forcing me to drink what I brought you, in case I slipped something in it.”

I smile. “A girl’s got to be careful these days.”

“Especially one who looks like you.”

I smile, and we touch glasses.

“Cheers,” I say.

“Cheers.”

We have a sip, and I automatically start tracking the drink count. The first rule of decoy work is you don’t allow the mark to get drunk. It’s the first excuse they always try.
I was drunk! I didn’t know what I was doing!
For this reason, I use the tape recorder app on my cell phone. I record everything that goes down, unless I’m using the phone for one of the games I play to keep the mark interested.

“Mind if I sit down?” he says.

“If you’re waiting for your
wife
, I do!”

He holds up his bare ring finger.

“That’s your proof?” I say, giggling.

“I’d tell you to check my pockets to see if there’s a ring in there, but I don’t think you’re that kind of girl. You’re not, right?”

I look down again and smile, unsure how to answer that. I’ve learned when it comes to picking up men who cheat, when in doubt, remain silent and smile. Men like shy, mysterious women. It worked for Jackie Kennedy, it’ll work for me.

“I hope I didn’t offend you,” he says.

“I’m single too,” I say, holding up my bare ring finger.

“That’s your proof?” he says, laughing.

I give him my bubbly laugh. Since he’s still standing over me, I roll my shoulders forward again, offering him another quick peek.

He thinks I’m fun. That’s a good thing, because in my wildest dreams I can’t imagine Carter Teague being fun or playful. In my experience, guys seeking a fling want something different. If their wives are stuffy, they’ll settle for stuffy, but what they want is playful. If their wives are B cups, they’ll settle for B’s, but what really revs them up is an A or C cup. If their wives are heavy, they’ll settle for heavy, but they’ll work harder to bed someone thin. If their wives are domineering, they want demure. If sweet, they want bitchy. And if their significant other has fake boobs, they’ll be craving the real thing.