Come Fly With Me (19 page)

“I
would
welcome
it,”
he
said,
grinning
wickedly.

“Who’s
that
hunk
you’re
whispering
with?”
Kenyon
asked,
pulling
the
attention
back
his
way.

“Alexander
Coventry.”

Kenyon
leaned
forward
to
get
a
better
glimpse.
“I
thought
you
said
he
couldn’t
dress?”

She
watched
him
as
he
eyed
the
fine
fabric
outlining
Alex’s
trim
physique.

“Shut
up,”
Allison
said.

“I’ll
fight
you
for
him.”

“No
need,
you
can
have
him,”
she
hissed
back.

“Well,
from
the
way
he’s
admiring
your
legs,
I
don’t
think
I
stand
a
chance,”
Ken
whispered.
“Hold
on,
they
just
opened
the
bidding
at
five
grand
on
your...er,
the
painting.”

Allison
turned
back
to
Alex
just
as
he
raised
his
paddle.
She
froze
and
offered
up
a
silent
prayer.
After
a
few
minutes
of
spirited
bidding,
the
auctioneer
banged
down
his
gavel.

“Sold!
To
the
gentleman
in
the
back.”

That’s
what
I
get
for
only
praying
in
emergencies,
she
thought
grumpily.
After
the
final
bid,
Allison
got
up
to
oversee
the
proper
wrapping
of
the
painting
and
to
say
a
silent
good-bye
to
it.
Alex
was
just
putting
away
his
platinum
Amex
as
she
approached.
She
couldn't
believe
he'd
just
paid
thirty-eight
thousand
dollars
for
her
painting.
She
didn’t
know
if
she
was
flattered,
or
if
she
felt
like
she
had
to
throw
up.

“Thank
you
for
your
generous
support
of
the
charities
here
tonight,”
she
said
graciously
instead.

“I
understand
the
foundation
established
in
your
grandfather’s
name
is
one
of
the
recipients.”

“Yes,
it
is.”

“What
does
the
charity
do
with
the
contributions?”
he
inquired.

“If
you’d
like,
I
can
have
the
reports
forwarded
to
your
office
on
Monday.”

“I
was
just
asking;
no
need
to
get
prickly,”
he
said.

Why
does
he
get
under
my
skin?
Allison
wondered.
She
was
actually
freaked
out
that
he
had
just
bought
her
painting.
She
hoped
he
didn’t
hang
it
in
his
bedroom.
Okay,
do
not
go
there,
she
admonished
herself.
She
refocused
and
saw
that
he
was
waiting
patiently
for
her
response.

“The
charitable
trust
lends
money
to
upstart
businesses
that
can’t
get
loans
through
standard
financial
institutions.”

“That
sounds
risky.”

“It
can
be,”
she
said
as
they
worked
their
way
back
into
the
ballroom
after
the
painting
was
properly
secured
and
had
been
left
with
the
concierge.
“I
spend
many
hours
vetting
the
candidates,
checking
the
viability
of
their
business,
and
assessing
the
character
of
the
applicants.”

“The
character
of
the
applicants—that’s
an
interesting
one.
How
has
that
worked
out
for
you?”

“I
have
a
decent
eye
at
separating
the
well-deserving
candidates
from
the
snake-oil
salesmen.
We
have
a
pretty
good
recovery
rate;
most
of
the
loans
get
repaid
within
ten
years.
My
grandfather
always
had
a
soft
spot
for
the
simple,
hard-working
man
with
a
dream.
We
try
to
live
up
to
his
legacy.”

“I
wonder
how
you
would
assess
my
character,”
he
said
as
he
handed
her
a
flute
of
champagne.

Flustered
by
his
directness,
Allison
gulped
the
drink
a
bit
too
quickly.
The
bubbles
tickled
her
nose,
and
she
half-burped,
half-snorted
in
an
attempt
to
recover
her
composure.
She
was
mortified.

“I
haven’t
given
it
much
thought,
actually,”
she
managed
to
squeak
out.

He
laughed
as
he
gestured
toward
her
with
his
empty
glass,
“You
really
ought
to
play
poker
more
often,
you
could
use
some
practice
with
your
game
face.”

“Alexander
Coventry,
I
believe
you
are
out
of
bounds.”

“Ouch,
from
hero
to
zero
in
under
forty
seconds.
You
might
as
well
figure
out
a
way
to
handle
me,
because
I'm
here
to
stay,”
he
said.

"You're
no
hero,
Alexander
Coventry.
Enjoy
your
evening,"
Allison
said.
She
grimaced
as
she
watched
the
crowd
swallow
him
up
and
was
relieved
when
Jeremy
appeared
at
her
side.

"What
was
that
all
about?”
he
asked.
“You
look
upset."

“I
think
I’ve
just
been
had
by
a
snake-oil
salesman.”

"Scott,
what's
the
holdup?"
Bradley
Ross
stretched
out
his
long
legs
as
he
pressed
the
intercom
next
to
his
seat
to
speak
with
the
pilot.