Neck & Neck (25 page)

She was rescued from having to continue the conversation by the chime of the doorbell. Evidently, even the people in her and Dean’s social circle couldn’t resist being in the same room as a billionaire, because over the next several minutes, all of his guests—save the aforementioned billionaire—arrived, two by two, just like Noah’s ark. There was even a strange sort of animalistic resemblance to each of them. The Stephensons were bearish, the Mortons were bullish, Major and Mrs. Dugan were hawks, Dory Mitchell and her date Logan Butterworth were rats, and Tootie Hightower and her date—holy cow, was that Patrick Ellington, her ex-fiancé who’d cheated on her with a local punk band?—were pigs.

Natalie, of course, knew all of them—Tootie, in fact, was responsible for the photo of Natalie in her big-ass bow dress that was plastered all over the Internet—and Natalie, of course, liked none of them. Dean’s friends were just like Dean: patrician, preening, and pompous, with a sense of entitlement that was nothing less than staggering.

Once everyone had their drinks in hand—and after Natalie set her still-full glass on the tray of a passing waiter—they all congregated in the main room, away from the windows, since no one wanted to admit the views were gorgeous, because that would make it seem like they were actually impressed by something. Other than themselves, she meant. But she naturally gravitated toward the windows again, because the sun was dipping low in the sky to her left, spilling over the Ohio and turning it into a ruffling ribbon of gold, flashing off the windows of southern Indiana on the other side and making them sparkle. A power-boat emerged from beneath the Second Street Bridge, and she smiled as she watched its wake widen leisurely into a golden triangle.

It was her favorite time of day, when the demands of life began to wane, and the pleasure of simply living began to trickle in. As much as she liked what she did for a living—what she hoped to keep doing for a living—Natalie was more of the “work to live” philosophy than of “live to work.” And evenings were when that living generally began. Of course, her job often necessitated she work at night, but even that didn’t feel the same as working during the day. As much as she flitted around keeping track of everything during the events she planned, she was still never quite able to avoid getting caught up in the festivity surrounding her.

As if cued by the thought, Dean’s guests suddenly seemed to be surrounding her, because Dean had led them her way, and any chance for festivity went up in smoke. Even when they were all children, there had always been a kind of pre dation about this particular group that wasn’t quite human. Suddenly, Natalie wished she was indeed working. Because it would have meant she would have had to decline Dean’s invitation—nay, his edict—to be here tonight. Not that she was here because he’d decreed it. She just wanted to see Mulholland. Dean, however, was inescapably under the impression that it was the power of his charismatic charm that was responsible for her being here tonight.

Then again, Mulholland wasn’t here yet, she noted. Not that he was
that
late. He’d just gone a bit beyond the
fashionably
thing at this point. Not that he probably cared. In fact, Natalie was beginning to wonder if the guy would show at all. Maybe she hadn’t been the only one who’d overindulged that night. Who knew if Mulholland had even been sober when he’d agreed to come to Dean’s party tonight? Who knew if he even remembered?

The realization hit her like a ton of overpriced hors d’oeuvres, followed by a gallon of Bombay martinis right to the face. She looked over at Dean, trying to think of a way to separate him from his guests to put forth the suggestion that Russell Mulholland had just been yanking his chain the other night when he said he’d come to this party. That way, he’d be out of eyeshot when she smacked him on the forehead and said, “Snap out of it!” because she sincerely doubted he’d believe that Russell Mulholland had just been yanking his chain the other night when he said he’d come to this party.

Before she had a chance to figure out how to do that, though, her nemesis from cotillion class—and the keeper of the big-ass bow picture—Tootie Hightower, sidled up next to Natalie and said the same thing she always said every time she saw Natalie at a party.

“I just updated my website. Have you checked it recently?”

Tootie’s real name was Camille, but she’d been dubbed Tootie in seventh grade when she’d had an embarrassing gastrointestinal reaction to the gourmet garlic wienies at Heather Mortimer’s pool party after eating way too many of them. In her defense, they’d been extra good wienies. On the other hand, Tootie’s gastrointestinal reaction had been extra gastric and extra-extra intestinal. These days, she insisted on being called Camille, but everyone still called her Tootie. Well, okay, maybe it was only Natalie who still called her Tootie. But only because Tootie deserved it.

“You know,” she told Tootie sweetly, “I keep forgetting you have a website. What’s its purpose again? I mean, it’s not like you have a career that you need a website for, like most people do.”
Translation,
Natalie added to herself,
Like
I
do.

Not that Tootie would even
try
to launch a career, since her parents, like Natalie’s, had raised—and expected—her from day one to be a perfect society wife, and Tootie, unlike Natalie, had bought into it. But Natalie was pretty sure there were times when Tootie envied women who made their own way in the world. And there were a number of jobs Tootie would be perfect for. Important jobs, too. Jobs like gossip columnist and fashion police and fishwife were just crying out for applicants like Tootie.

“It’s a society website,” she said through what Natalie was sure weren’t gritted teeth but just Tootie’s unusual way of smiling. “The most visited society website in town. Anybody who’s anybody checks it at least weekly. Usually daily.”

Which was Tootie’s way of saying that Natalie, by not looking at it, was a complete nobody. Not that Tootie needed any additional ways to say that, since she already had dozens she used regularly. In fact, many of them appeared on her website. Which was yet another reason why Natalie never felt compelled to check it.

“Ah,” she replied without a trace of . . . well, anything. “Well, I’ll be sure to give it a look sometime when I’m not massively busy with my hugely successful career.”

Tootie smirked at that. “It can’t be too successful if Dean didn’t even hire you to plan his party tonight.”

Natalie smirked back. “Dean can’t afford me.”

Hoo-boy was that true. Just not in the way Tootie would interpret it. Not even Warren Buffett had enough money to make Natalie spend any more time with Dean than she had to. Bail out Wall Street, sure. Make Natalie spend time with Dean? No way.

What was ironic was that Tootie would have spent more than the gross national product of Denmark to have Dean pay as much attention to her as he did to Natalie. Even in cotillion class, Tootie had always wanted to dance with rat-faced Dean Waterman. Not because she had a crush on him—even Tootie wasn’t that troubled—but because she had a crush on the Waterman fortune.

The Hightowers were nouveau riche, having claimed their millions for only the last three generations, and it would bring up their social standing considerably to be linked with the moldy old piles of filthy lucre the Water mans claimed. In fact, Tootie’s grandfather’s real last name had been Guberman when he invented the machine part that made him rich, and he changed it to Hightower because he thought it sounded more patrician, preening, and pompous. Which was unfortunate, because Tootie Guberman had a real ring to it.

Anyway, Tootie had always thought that marrying into the Waterman family would give the family formerly known as Guberman more social cachet. And now that Dean didn’t look like a rodent anymore, she knew the two of them would photograph together beautifully, as well. And really, Natalie thought further, the two of them
were
perfect for each other. They were both condescending and supercilious and completely in love . . . with themselves.

Um, where was she?

Oh, yeah, she recalled. She was about to come up with some excuse for why she had to excuse herself from Tootie before Tootie could think of some comeback for that “
Dean can’t afford me
” comment. Which, admittedly, considering the speed at which Tootie generally ran with ideas, would probably be sometime next week.

But Natalie was saved the trouble of planning her escape by the ringing of Dean’s doorbell, a soft, elegant chime that utterly silenced the room. Not only that, but every person present turned to look at the front door, since everyone knew the only person missing from the party was the reclusive billionaire, Russell Mulholland. Even the black-tied servers paused in their serving, and the two chefs peeked out of the kitchen, all having been informed of the identity of the guest of honor so they’d all be on their best behavior. It was if the entire room was holding its collective breath in anticipation. The expressions on the faces of everyone would have been the same if they’d been told Dean was hosting the Second Coming tonight.

It was all Natalie could do not to shout,
Oh, lighten up, people! I’ve been three sheets to the wind in front of the man! He’s no different from anyone else!

Except for that stuff about how he could make or break her career. But there was no reason any of them had to know that. Especially Tootie.

The guests all waited another moment, evidently for a bolt of lightning or crash of thunder, Natalie couldn’t help thinking, and when neither disrupted the gathering, Dean mumbled an “Excuse me” to everyone and headed for the door. But not before grabbing Natalie’s wrist and dragging her along behind him, reminding her that she was supposed to be the hostess here, something she kept forgetting for some reason.

After straightening his tie and pasting on his brightest smile—and picking a piece of lint off of Natalie’s shoulder and straightening her necklace, the big jerk—he wrapped his fingers snugly around the doorknob and began to turn it. Natalie wasn’t sure, but she thought just about everyone present took a few steps forward in anticipation when he did, all of them craning their necks—as unobtrusively as possible, of course, though they were about as unobtrusive as a bunch of Mack trucks—to witness the arrival of the Mulholland.

As Dean tugged open the door, he jovially greeted his final guest with, “It is such an honor to have you here tonight, Mr. . . .”

But his voice trailed off before finishing—and heat splashed through Natalie’s belly—when it became obvious that it wasn’t Russell Mulholland who was standing on the other side of the door. It was Finn Guthrie. Nor was the person standing beside Finn Russell Mulholland. It was a breathtaking blonde in a satiny red dress that clung to more curves than Natalie had ever seen on another living creature, other than the Michelin man. But then, the Michelin man wasn’t a living creature. And the blonde’s curves were way more concave. Except around the top, where she gave new meaning to the word
consex
. Ah, con
vex
, Natalie meant, of course. Humpf.

“. . . Guthrie, was it?” Dean finished, not even trying to hide his irritation. He even looked past Finn and the blonde in an unmistakable effort to locate the man he’d invited, dismissing Finn as security, a necessary but clearly unwanted evil.

Which was a fair assumption, Natalie thought. Except that she would have substituted the word
evil
with some other term. Something like
wickedly delicious sinfulness
. And she would have substituted the word
unwanted
with something like, oh, say . . .
hungered for
. Oh, and also except that Russell Mulholland was nowhere near Finn, and the blonde was way nearer than she probably should have been if she were Mulholland’s date. Which meant that whatever security Mulholland’s bodyguard was providing was pretty thin at the moment, except when it came to the blonde.

Not that Natalie noticed the blonde
or
her consexity. Damn her. Not when Finn looked as wickedly, deliciously sinful as he did, dressed in the wickedly deliciously sinful way he was dressed. Which wasn’t like his usual way at all. At least, not the Finn she knew. So far, she’d seen him in ragged jeans and sweatpants and khakis and such, but tonight, his attire rivaled the elegance quotient of the rest of the guests. But instead of making him look elegant, the charcoal suit, slate dress shirt, and silver necktie only made him seem more dangerous somehow. It also made his smoky bedroom eyes even smokier and more bedroomy. He’d even shaved, she saw, something that brought out a long slash of dimple in each cheek that somehow made him look even more rugged than the stubble of beard had. And when he smiled at his host, even with the tightness and clear lack of warmth he held for Dean, Natalie very nearly swooned.

Truly. Swooned. Right there in the twenty-first century, where no woman had any right to swoon after all the social and political strides they and their mothers and grand-mothers had made against women’s swooning.

“That’s right,” Finn said crisply. “I’m Mr. Guthrie.” Somehow, Natalie detected the silent
to you, buster
with which he’d wanted to end the statement but hadn’t for the sake of . . .

Well, something. Not courtesy, that was for sure, since Finn Guthrie wasn’t the type for that.

Dean didn’t much bother with courtesy, either, when he asked, “Where’s your employer?”

Not
Where’s Mr. Mulholland?
Natalie noted.
Where’s your employer?
As if he wanted to be sure to keep Finn in his place, relegated to the same status as the catering help.

Instead of answering right away, Finn shouldered his way past Dean without even being invited in, bringing the blonde with him. And when he finally did reply to Dean, he looked at Natalie instead of his host.

“Mr. Mulholland couldn’t make it after all,” he said. “He remembered this afternoon that he had a, um, previous engagement.”