After the Kiss (3 page)

Julie chewed her lip. “You guys really think I should go man hunting at an education fund-raiser? Isn’t this a little … depraved?”

Grace shrugged. “For the record, I think this whole thing is depraved. But if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it right.”

Julie’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the sheer number of conservative suits. Grace had a point. Tonight was as good a night as any to find a fake boyfriend. But could she do this?
Should
she do this?

Then she pictured Kelli’s gloating face. If she
didn’t
do this, it would be Julie who’d be assigned to fridge-cleaning duties, while Kelli moved her tiny butt into Julie’s office.

Not happening
.

“So how do we do this?” Julie asked. She tried to keep the trepidation out of her voice. She’d never really paid much attention to the length of her previous relationships, but now she couldn’t seem to think about anything else. Once they’d run out of quips and banter, and after the sex haze had worn off … what did people do?

“Let’s split up,” Riley said. “We’ll cover more ground that way. Everyone keep an eye
out for the quiet, rich, husband-material type.”

“Yeah, that should be a breeze,” Julie said. “Not like ninety percent of the women here aren’t looking for one of those.”

But Riley was already gone.

“I hate it when she does that,” Julie muttered. Grace started to glide away, but Julie grasped her arm. “Don’t leave me. Not yet.”

“Sure,” Grace said, sending her a curious look. “Camille’s over there. Shall we say hello?”

Oh, by all means. Let’s go see the woman who got me into this mess
.

“Nah, let’s dodge her for a while. I’m not in the mood to be talking about how wonderful love is.”

Grace grabbed for Julie’s wrist so quickly that Julie’s champagne sloshed.

“I think I’ve got him.” Grace sounded positively giddy.

“Got who?”

“The guy. The one you’ve been looking for!”

“Oh, you mean Mr. Movie Night,” Julie said, looking around for one of the cute tuxedo-wearing gentlemen carrying the trays of booze.

“What?” Grace wrinkled her nose in puzzlement.

“Never mind,” Julie mumbled. “And what do you mean, you’ve found him? The plan has been in existence for all of ten minutes. How did you come up with my pseudo-boyfriend in the last fifteen seconds?”

But Grace ignored all of this, looking incredibly proud of herself. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of him earlier. I just talked to him this past weekend, and he mentioned that he’d broken up with his girlfriend of a couple of years. Trust me, this guy is
definitely
the type to be seeking a relationship.”

“That’s just great,” Julie said, glaring down at yet another glass of champagne. Didn’t this joint have any vodka? “I have an idea—how about you go talk to him? Then you guys can start picking out a first course for your wedding reception and names for your Stepford babies. Meanwhile, I’ll be over at the bar exploring new cocktails and enjoying a variety of men.”

Grace didn’t look the least bit impressed with Julie’s speech. “Don’t you snap at me, Greene. This is your idea. I’m just here to help.”

Help? Help with what, selling my soul?
Julie sighed. “Okay, you’re right. Where’s the guy?”

“You can’t look now. He’s facing this way and it’ll be obvious.”

“So I’m just supposed to bump into him, spill wine on his shirt, and then make my move?”

Grace glanced at her in approval. “Not bad!”

“Grace, it’s horrible! It’s the most obvious ploy in the book. I might as well go for the whole ‘You look familiar’ cliché.”

“Oh, come on. Guys don’t care how original you are as long as you’re hot.”

Julie opened her mouth to argue but was forced to concede. Grace did have a point there. Most men put originality somewhere between knitting skills and snoring on the list of must-haves.

Grace snapped her fingers in front of Julie’s face. “You got this. You can do it. Just keep your eye on the ball.”

Julie batted her hand away. “Okay, coach, I’m ready. What do I need to know about this guy?”

Grace pursed her lips. “I’m trying to remember something interesting.”

Julie groaned. Not a good sign.

“Actually, all I really know is that he works with Greg. And according to Greg, he’s kind of a workaholic. Not big on the social stuff. But he’s been nice enough at those stuffy Wall Street functions Greg’s always dragging me to.”

Julie choked on a bacon-wrapped fig. “Wall Street? You want me to date a guy from Wall Street?”

“Not date.
Woo
. And what’s wrong with guys from Wall Street? Greg works on Wall Street.”

Exactly
.

Julie pictured her best friend’s boyfriend: his navy suits, his slicked-back hair, that sharky smile, and his inability to talk about anything other than stocks and golf. Not to mention his insistence that argyle would never go out of style. Julie tried not to shudder.

Still, she had to admit that Grace’s reasoning was sound. Most Wall Street men she’d encountered were of the trophy-wife set. They needed someone young and shiny to show off
along with their high-rise condos. Julie could be young and shiny. Granted, the first one was getting further and further out of reach, but she made up for it with a push-up bra and an affinity for trendy cocktails.

You can do this. It’s no different from any other dating expedition. Smile. Keep your lipstick off your teeth. Don’t slur
.

Easy peasy.

“Okay, where is he?” Julie asked.

“Over by the chocolate fountain. He’s talking to Allen Carsons.”

Julie’s eyes bugged. “Allen Carsons of the
New York Tribune
? As in Camille’s ex-husband? As in
Stiletto
’s enemy number one?”

Grace gave a rueful smile, and Julie rolled her eyes.
Great. This just keeps getting better and better
.

Schooling her face in a casual, indifferent expression, Julie oh so slowly turned in the direction Grace had indicated. Almost immediately her eyes landed on Allen Carsons’s distinctive bald head. There were rumors going around that he shined it up with duck fat before special occasions, but Julie was inclined to think that was a Camille-fabricated detail. Apparently their divorce had been spectacularly messy.

Her eyes moved to Allen’s companion, a tallish man in a pinstripe suit.

Pinstripes. Good lord. Ten bucks says he has a pocket protector
.

“Grace,” she said desperately, “I don’t think—”

“Give him a chance.”

Julie took a deep breath and looked at him again. Maybe she was underestimating him. Julie braced herself and waited for it. The zing, the sizzle.

And she felt … absolutely nothing. He was like dry toast.

Julie could have identified this guy as a broker even without Grace’s introduction. He was fit but not bulky. His brown hair was just on the chocolatey side of mousy, and while she couldn’t see the color of his eyes from here, there was nothing to suggest that they’d be any more interesting than the rest of him.

And the man wore
glasses
. Call her judgmental, but she couldn’t imagine getting hot over a dude with glasses.

Then again … She tilted her head and took in the serious expression, the polished shoes,
and the perfectly shaven jaw. Grace had been dead right. A man like this was just screaming for a little woman by his side.

If she played her cards right, he’d be eating out of her hand by midnight.

“Name?” Julie asked distractedly.

“Mitchell something. Ford? Forbes?”

Mitchell. It was so … yawn.

The man in question gave Allen a bland smile that did absolutely nothing to her lady bits. This man was a movie night waiting to happen.

Julie allowed herself a small victory smile.

Mitchell Ford-slash-Forbes was absolutely perfect.

A bored-looking bartender pushed glasses across the makeshift bar, and Mitchell resisted the urge to ask if he could get something stronger than watered-down whisky. As if reading Mitchell’s thought, the bartender dumped another scoopful of half-melted ice into the glasses.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Out of habit, Mitchell fished a five out of his wallet for a tip, then grabbed the two glasses. He handed one to his ever-jovial colleague, Colin.

Halfheartedly Mitchell clinked his glass against Colin’s. “Here’s to fucking fund-raisers. And thanks, by the way. I owe you one for rescuing me.”

Colin Trainor took a sip of whisky and nodded in acknowledgment. “Just promise you’ll do the same for me someday. I’d rather listen to my aunt Yvonne discuss proper enema technique than get caught in a conversation with Allen Carsons. That man’s one Los Angeles bush away from becoming a stalkerish paparazzo. What did he want with you, anyway?”

Mitchell shrugged. “About what you’d expect. Details on my breakup with Evelyn.”

“Guess that’s what you get for dumping the daughter of our country’s most popular senator.”

“I didn’t dump Evelyn. We just went our separate ways.”

“Irreconcilable differences and all that?” Colin asked.

Extreme boredom, actually
. “Something like that,” he replied noncommittally. Mitchell wasn’t often inclined to spill his guts. Not to lowbrow reporters, and not to gossip-prone colleagues. Not that Colin was a bad guy. They were even friends of a sort. But the occasional after-work beer didn’t exactly warrant personal confidences. At least not in Mitchell’s book.

Colin drained his whisky and frowned at the glass. “What was in this, whisky essence? And remind me again what we’re doing here. I don’t
get
art on the best of days, but this weird modern shit is over my head. I’ve taken dumps more attractive than some of these displays.”

Silently Mitchell agreed. He enjoyed museums. Even art museums. But MoMA in all of its sleek, modern splendor was his least favorite museum in the city. He’d take the quiet dignity of the Frick Collection on Fifty-Ninth Street over the flash of MoMA any day.

“At least this should fulfill our quota for the year,” Mitchell said.

Robert Newman, CEO of Newman and Chris, the firm where Colin and Mitchell were senior partners, insisted that the company have representation at all charitable functions for which Newman and Chris was a sponsor. Mitchell had chosen tonight as his contribution only because the Yankees had a travel day. And because he could get behind educational charity more than some of the fluffier causes Robert supported.

“At least there’s some decent tail here,” Colin said, his eyes on the backside of a woman who couldn’t possibly have graduated from college yet.

“Tail? What is this, a dockside brothel?”

“Spoken like a man who’s been in a relationship since his balls dropped.”

“Hyperbole doesn’t suit you.”

Colin signaled the bartender for two more drinks. “Seriously, man, when was the last time you dated a girl just for the fun of it?”

“Evelyn and I had fun.”
Sort of
.

Colin snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure sipping Dom on her father’s yacht with your sweater tied around your shoulders was a real hoot.”

Just two months ago Colin’s barbs would have rolled off Mitchell. He refused to be ashamed for conducting himself with dignity. He hadn’t indulged in drunken one-night stands in college, and he wasn’t about to start now, at age thirty-four.

But two months ago Mitchell had been secure in the knowledge that his future was figured out. He’d propose to Evelyn, have a respectable-length engagement, get married at the Plaza, and start a family within a year of exchanging vows.

He’d gotten as far as the jewelry store. He’d even carried the two-carat princess-cut engagement ring in his pocket for two weeks.

And then he’d ended it. On a whim. Perhaps the first whim of his adult life. Evelyn hadn’t seen it coming. And the hell of it was, neither had Mitchell.

One minute he was trying to decide whether to play it old-school and kneel or stay sitting and save himself the dry-cleaning bill for dirty slacks. The next minute he was sitting alone at the table, having just told Evelyn that she deserved something better than a husband who’d spend his life going through the motions instead of cherishing her.

Cherishing her
. He winced as the thought went through his mind. Good God. Maybe he
should just chuck the New York Stock Exchange and go write romance novels.

Mitchell heard his name and realized that Colin was still babbling at him.

“Tell me, honestly, man, have you ever had a fling?” Colin asked. “A one-night stand? Anything?”

Mitchell scowled and checked his watch. “What’s with the interrogation about my love life? Last time I checked, I wasn’t paying you for therapy.”

“Maybe you should. You need to get laid.”

Probably. Definitely
.

“Well, I’ll let you know when I meet a suitable woman.”

Colin shook his head. “See, that’s
exactly
what I’m talking about. You analyze every woman as a candidate for the position of Mrs. Forbes. Have you ever touched a woman without first checking her pedigree?”

“Yes. I actually prefer a more spontaneous approach to relationships,” Mitchell lied baldly. “The chemistry has to be there, absolutely.”

Not
. Chemistry was for chumps. Chemistry was what led to waking up in someone else’s dirty sheets, hep C, and eventual absence of a prenup.

But the fact that a buffoon as dense and clueless as Colin could read him like a book was galling. Being predictable was fine. Being predictably
boring
was not.

However, Colin was proving to be more aware than Mitchell gave him credit for. “Dude, you don’t give a crap about chemistry. If you did, you wouldn’t have dated Evelyn for two and a half years. The moldy onion in my refrigerator has more personality than that broad.”

Mitchell took a drink. “Evelyn’s a lovely woman. She’d make an excellent wife.”
For someone
.

Colin pounced. “
That
. That is why you’re so grumpy all the time. You approach women the way you do a new suit.”