Neck & Neck

Table of Contents

 

 

“[A] great paranormal contemporary romance . . . Well-written.”
—Night Owl Romance

 

 

“[A] fabulous romance . . . Captures the spirit of the Kentucky Derby . . . With well-developed, entertaining characters and humorous dialogue . . . Will keep you reading until the end of the race.”
—Fresh Fiction

 

“Engaging . . . Fans will enjoy this lighthearted romp.”

 

“This warm, easygoing story, set in the world of horse racing, has very likable characters, especially a hero who’s basically a nice guy and some great secondary characters. The way the hero pursues the heroine is lovely.”

 

“Elizabeth Bevarly writes with irresistible style and wit.”

—New York Times
bestselling author Teresa Medeiros

 

“[Bevarly’s] writing is quirky and funny, and her heroes are hot.”
—The Oakland (MI) Press

 

“Full of hijinks and belly laughs.”
—Detroit Free Press

 

“A supersteamy beach novel.”
—Cosmopolitan

 

“This is a book that’s like a drink of fresh water to all of us who are tired of reading about perfect women. There’s a bit of a mystery, a sexy hero, and a lot of terrific one-liners.”

—New York Times
bestselling author Eloisa James

 

“A delightful, humorous, and smoothly written book—a must read.”
—Rocky Mountain News

 

“This practically perfect romance has . . . writing that is pure joy.”
—Library Journal

 

“Wyatt and Julian are quirkily appealing romantic heroes, and Bevarly’s voice is fresh and funny.”
—Publishers Weekly

 

“Full of the author’s trademark humor, this witty romance is a jaunty romp through the world of the rich and mischievous.”
—Romantic Times

 

“Enjoyable and funny.”
—Booklist

FAST & LOOSE
READY & WILLING
NECK & NECK

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

NECK & NECK

 

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / August 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth Bevarly.

 

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
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eISBN : 978-1-101-10894-9

 

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Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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NATALIE BECKETT SURVEYED THE ARCHITECTURAL wonder that was the ballroom of Edgar and Clementine Hotchkiss’s palatial estate and decided that only a complete loser could mess up a party thrown against a backdrop like this. It was as if she’d just walked into the court of Louis XIV, from the cloud- and cherub-spattered ceiling to the gilded moldings to the beveled Palladian windows that virtually completed the far wall. The late afternoon sun spilled through those windows, imbuing the room with a luscious golden light, but at night, all those crystal chandeliers hanging overhead would toss diamonds onto the inlaid hardwood floor. It would take an abject, absolute loser not to be able to throw an amazing, full-to-the-rafters party in this place.

That made Natalie an abject, absolute loser.

And Clementine Hotchkiss was the ideal client, one who had spoken those coveted words that every professional event planner longed to hear: “Money is no object.” Even better, she’d meant it. Clementine had been Natalie’s aunt Margaret’s best friend since college, and she and Mr. Hotchkiss were soiled to their undergarments by their filthy lucre. Clementine had told Natalie to do whatever she wanted with regard to the party—theme, decorations, catering, you name it—that she was turning the event over into Natalie’s trusted, talented hands, and please just let Clementine know to whom she should make out the checks and for how much. There was no way anyone could mess up a golden professional opportunity like the one Clementine had offered. No one except an utter, unmitigated loser.

An utter, unmitigated loser like, oh, say . . . Natalie.

She’d had plenty of time to plan the party, too, since Clementine had hired her eight months ago, the very week Natalie had hung out her shingle for Party Favors, her event-planning business. And Clementine was hosting the bash on the quintessential evening to have a party in Louisville: the night before the most famous horse race in the world, the Kentucky Derby.
Every
body in Louisville was in a party mood on Derby Eve. The two weeks leading up to the race were the city’s equivalent of Mardi Gras. Derby parties were easier to plan than any other type of party, because there were no conflicting events. It was Derby. Period. Everyone kept that weekend open for celebrating. Only a party planner who was a pure and profound loser would crash and burn planning a Derby party.

That made Natalie Beckett a pure and profound loser.

Because even though the odds had been overwhelmingly in her favor from the starting gate when it came to planning Clementine’s Derby Eve party two weeks from today, almost no one was planning to attend. Even though the invitations had gone out six weeks ago—and the allegedly unnecessary save-the-date cards had gone out six months ago—Clementine had received few RSVPs in the affirmative. The majority of the three hundred guests she’d invited hadn’t bothered to return the cards at all.

Which, okay, one could interpret to mean those guests might still be planning to come. But Natalie wasn’t going to bank on it, since the party was only two weeks away, and unreturned RSVPs at this point almost always were negative RSVPs. By now, even Clementine probably wasn’t expecting much. But she was optimistic enough—or perhaps deluded enough—to pretend Natalie could still turn this thing around.

That delusion—ah, Natalie meant optimism, of course—was made evident when Clementine asked, “So what do you think, Natalie? Shall we put the buffet on the left or the right?”

Buffet?
Natalie repeated to herself. Oh, she didn’t think they were going to need a buffet. A tube of saltines and a box of Velveeta ought to take care of the catering very nicely. They probably wouldn’t even have to break out the Chinet.

She turned to her client, who was the epitome of society grande dame relaxing at home, with her sleek silver page-boy and black velvet headband, dressed in a black velour running suit, which, it went without saying, had never,
ever
been worn to run. Clementine had rings decorating nearly every finger—she didn’t abide by that silly rule about never wearing precious gems before cocktail hour—and clutched a teeny little Westie named Rolondo to her chest. Rolondo evidently didn’t buy into that precious gems thing, either, because Natalie would bet those were genuine rubies studding the little guy’s collar.

But then, Natalie was no slouch in the fashion department, at least when she was working. As she pondered her answer to her client’s potentially loaded question, she lifted a perfectly manicured hand to the sweep of perfectly styled golden-blond hair that fell to her shoulders—perfect because she’d just had both done before coming to visit Clementine. Of course, by evening, when Natalie arrived home, the nails would be chipped and nibbled, and the hair would be in a stubby ponytail that pulled a little too much to the left. But for now, she used the same perfectly manicured hand to straighten the flawless collar of her flawless champagne-colored suit—which, by evening, would revert to jeans and a Louisville Cardinals T-shirt. Then she conjured her most dazzling smile for her client, the one she’d learned in cotillion class as a child and perfected long before she made her debut thirteen years ago.

Her parents had spared no expense when it came to bringing up their youngest daughter right, after all. And by
right
, Ernest and Dody Beckett meant
to be the pampered wife of a commodities broker or a commercial banker or, barring that, a corporate vice-president on his way to the top
. They’d thought she was crazy, pursuing something as frivolous as a college degree—in, of all pointless majors, business—when she knew she would have access to her trust fund upon turning eighteen and could then land herself a perfectly good husband like that nice Dean Waterman, who had been mooning over her for years, and where had they gone wrong, having a daughter who wanted to go to college and start her own business? Merciful heavens. Why couldn’t she be more like her sister Lynette, who was the pampered wife of an investment analyst—which was
almost
as good as a commodities broker or commercial banker—and who spent her days volunteering for the Junior League and in the library of her children’s tony private school?

“Clementine,” Natalie said in the soothe-the-client voice she’d also perfected years ago—right around the time her first business venture was going under—“I think we should put a buffet on the left
and
the right.”

Clementine’s eyes went as round as silver dollars. “Oh, my. Do you think that’s wise? I mean, considering how few RSVPs have come back in the affirmative . . .”

Okay, so clearly Clementine wasn’t as delusional as Natalie had hoped. Ah, she meant
thought
. That just meant Natalie would have to be delusional enough for the two of them.

Piece o’ cake.

She lifted a hand and waved it in airy nonchalance. “Pay it no mind, Clementine. People often wait ’til the last minute to RSVP. Especially for something like a Derby Eve party, when they have so many prospects to choose from.”

Which, of course, was one of the reasons Natalie was such an abject, unmitigated loser when it came to planning this party. Clementine’s Derby Eve party was vying with a dozen better-established Derby Eve parties when it came to attracting guests. Since those other parties had been around so much longer—decades longer, some of them—they were able to pull in the cream of local society, not to mention the bulk of visiting A-list celebrities. The guests to the Barnstable-Brown party alone—easily the most venerable of Derby Eve parties—could light up Tinseltown, Broadway,
and
the Grand Ole Opry. But the Grand Gala and Mint Jubilee were closing in for sheer star power.