Neck & Neck (12 page)

Inescapably, Finn glanced down at his own attire: dark khaki trousers and a white oxford with pinstripes that had put him back about fifty bucks at a Banana Republic sale. True, on his salary, he could afford a four-figure suit if he wanted one.
One
being the operative word, admittedly, but he could still afford one. But who in their right mind spent that kind of money on clothing, even if they could afford to? Other than Russell, but the rightness of Russell’s mind had been in question ever since Marti’s death. There were plenty of other things four figures could buy that would make the world a better place. For someone other than the person who had the four figures, he meant.

His thoughts were interrupted, thankfully, by the arrival of their waiter, who took their drink orders and, Finn couldn’t help noting, said nothing about two-for-one cocktails. The movement must have caught Natalie’s attention, though, because when the waiter departed, giving Finn visual access to her again, she was looking right at him. For a moment, she didn’t react, her response time clearly dulled by the martini—martinis?—she’d consumed. Then, suddenly, her eyes went wide with recognition. What amazed Finn, though, was that, even after her gaze flew to Russell—and her eyes went even wider with recognition—it rico cheted back to Finn again, instead of remaining fixed on her quarry. And then, out of nowhere, the blush that had captured his attention the first time he’d seen her bloomed on her cheeks again. And damned if he didn’t find it even more captivating this time.

For a moment, she only gazed at him; then she lifted her right hand and wiggled her fingers in greeting. That made her date turn around to see who she was waving at, and when he saw Finn looking at Natalie, he narrowed his eyes menacingly.

He did, however, turn more fully around and say, by way of a greeting, Finn supposed, “Dean Waterman.” His voice was edged with something that was anything but amiable, however. Then he extended his hand without getting up, clearly expecting Finn to make the concession of moving to shake it. “Are you a friend of Natalie’s?” he asked.

Russell turned around at Waterman’s remarks, and when he didn’t recognize the man making them or the woman with him, he turned back to Finn with a look of curiosity etched on his face. Finn made a vague gesture that he didn’t know the guy—yet—then, realizing he would look like a boor if he didn’t shake the man’s hand, he stood, rounded the table, and gave it a quick shake.

“Not exactly,” he said. “Ms. Beckett and I ran into each other for the first time the other day.” He turned to look at Natalie then, only to find that not only had the blush deepened on her cheeks, but her mouth, too, seemed redder than before, and her pupils had expanded to nearly eclipse her greenish blue irises. “Ms. Beckett,” he said with a dip of his head toward her. “You’re looking well.”

Understatement of the century,
he thought. Her green dress hugged her lush body even better than the tight sweater had the day before, and the neck was scooped even lower. She also had the added accessory of a glittering choker he’d just bet was real diamonds and emeralds—he’d been around Russell’s purchases like that enough to recognize quality, too—the gemstones rivaling her eyes for clarity and sparkle. Although they were probably winning in the clarity division for the moment, thanks to the martini or martinis. In spite of that, she was able to manage a reasonably coherent greeting.

“Hello, Mr. Guthrie. It’s, um, lovely to see you here.”

Finn doubted that. She’d probably been hoping to find Russell here without him. And how had she known Russell would be eating here tonight, anyway? They always made dinner reservations under a fictitious name, and never the same name twice. He made a mental note to ponder that later, then turned to look at Natalie’s date again.

Thanks to Finn’s making clear that he and Natalie had just met, and thanks to the formal way they’d greeted each other, Dean Waterman had relaxed some, but his expression still held a wariness that suggested he wasn’t comfortable with Finn’s presence at the next table. It was something that made Finn think the other man might not be as confident of Natalie’s affections as he ought to be, something that went a long way toward explaining the two martinis sitting in front of his date. Maybe he
was
trying to get her drunk so that he could take advantage of her.

Not that Natalie Beckett struck Finn as the kind of woman who would fall for a ploy like that, but, hey, he’d just met her a couple of days ago, so what did he know? Just because he’d formed an impression of her as an intelligent, sexy, witty, sexy, clever, sexy, beautiful, sexy woman didn’t mean that she was one. Well, okay, she
was
sexy and beautiful—no one in his right mind could dispute that—but the other qualities might just have been his imagination. Or maybe that wishful thinking thing again. Or delusion, which seemed to also be a frequent companion of his lately.

Then again, if she was in a situation here where her date was trying to get her drunk so he could take advantage of her, then Finn ought to—

Nothing,
Finn told himself. He should do nothing. Natalie Beckett was none of his business. She was a grown woman capable of taking care of herself. If she made bad choices like drinking too much and dating guys who would take advantage of that, then who was he to criticize? It wasn’t like he was the poster child for upright, forthright, do-right behavior. He’d overindulged more times than he should have in the past and woken up beside women he shouldn’t have. He was the last person who should be anyone’s keeper.

Yeah, okay, he was Russell’s and Max’s keeper, he reminded himself. But he was paid to be that. Natalie hadn’t hired him for anything. Not that he wouldn’t mind if she hired him to—

Nothing,
he repeated more adamantly to himself. He was not now, nor would he ever be, anything to Natalie Beckett, other than a thorn in her side if she kept stalking his employer.

That thought made him look over at Russell, who, he saw, had turned fully around in his seat and was eyeing the group—and listening to their exchange—with much interest. The reason for that gradually became clearer when Finn saw Russell’s gaze flick from him to Natalie. Then to her date. Then back to Natalie. Then back to Finn. He grinned broadly, though for what reason, Finn couldn’t begin to guess.

Until, out of nowhere, Russell looked at the other couple and said, “Why don’t you two join us for dinner? Any friend of Finn’s is a friend of mine.”

Finn was about to point out that he’d just said he and Natalie
weren’t
friends, that they barely knew each other, but she was out of her seat and folding herself into the one beside Russell faster than you could say, “Ditch my date.” He noticed she only brought one of her martinis with her, but it was the full one. Waterman, Finn noted, simply sighed with something akin to resignation and mirrored Natalie’s migration. So what could Finn do but return to his seat—next to Natalie—biting back a resigned sigh of his own.

“Ms. . . . Beckett, was it?” Russell said, extending a hand toward her.

“Natalie, please,” she replied, sounding more than a little flustered.

“Natalie,” he said with the smile that had been the downfall of many a woman. Natalie, Finn noted, was no less immune. Dammit. “My name is—”

“Russell Mulholland,” she interrupted before he had the chance. “Of course I know who you are.”

Evidently, Dean Waterman hadn’t known who Russell was, because his expression and demeanor changed dramatically at Natalie’s words.

“Russell Mulholland?” he asked. “
The
Russell Mulholland? Of Mulholland Games?”

Where Russell had clearly been charmed by Natalie— but then, he was generally charmed by anything that produced estrogen—his attitude toward Waterman’s effusion was considerably cooler.

“I am,” he said simply.

Waterman smiled brightly, but the effect on the whole was more of garishness than brilliance. “Dean Waterman,” he said with way more enthusiasm than he’d shown when he introduced himself to Finn, thrusting out his hand with enough force to shatter a brick. Had there actually been a brick on the table, Finn meant. Russell gave it a single, less than enthusiastic shake. “I’m one of your investors,” Waterman gushed further.

Well, hell, who wasn’t? Finn wanted to ask the guy. Anyone who played the stock market invested in Mulholland Games, Inc. It was only one reason why the company was doing so well.

Even though Waterman hadn’t asked—and Natalie hadn’t offered, Finn thought, telling himself he was
not
bristling at the knowledge—he told Waterman, “I’m Finn Guthrie. I’m one of Mr. Mulholland’s associates.”

Natalie leaned toward Waterman and, in a theatrical whisper she didn’t even try to hide, told him, “He’s Mr. Mulholland’s bodyguard. Well, one of them.” She turned to Russell, wrinkling her nose in a way that should have been annoying but was actually kind of . . . Well, hell.
Adorable
was the word that came to Finn’s mind, even though it was a word that he normally, manfully avoided. Then she leaned over toward Russell, and in the same too-loud whisper, said, “But don’t worry, Mr. Mulholland. I won’t tell anybody.”

As if to illustrate that promise, she lifted her hand to her mouth and mimicked the locking of her lips with an imaginary key. Then, as if that weren’t good enough, she made a big production of tossing it over her shoulder. Then she smiled in a way that indicated that yep, the martini was definitely not her first of the night.

Instead of being offended by her behavior, however, Russell was, predictably, even more charmed. “Please, Natalie,” he said. “Call me Russell. And don’t
you
worry. As I said, any friend of Finn’s is a friend of mine.” Now Russell leaned in close to Natalie. Finn tried not to reach over and grab his best friend by the collar and shove him back into his seat. “Besides, I can tell right away that you aren’t the sort of person who would betray a trust like that.”

Oh, if he only knew,
Finn thought. Then again, he was sure Russell did know. He just didn’t care. Because Natalie was a beautiful, sexy woman, and that was all that mattered.

Dammit.

Russell signaled their server and asked that their guests’ dinners be brought to their new table, and that their bill should be added to his own. Natalie started to object, but Waterman cut her off, thanking Russell with the same smarmy effusion he’d shown before.

“So, Natalie,” Russell said when their server left again, even though Waterman had opened his mouth to say something more. Probably something really smarmy. “How do you and Finn know each other?”

Natalie looked flummoxed for a moment, her gaze darting from Russell to Finn and back again, as if she honestly wasn’t sure how she and Finn knew each other. “Ummm . . .” she began eloquently.

She reached nervously for her martini and sipped it with all the daintiness of a debutante, which Finn was confident she must have been, once upon a time. Then she sipped it daintily again. Then a third time. By which point she nearly drained the glass. And by which point it wasn’t just Russell eyeing her expectantly. It was Waterman, too. Hell, truth be told, Finn was feeling a little expectant himself.

Then, suddenly, her expression cleared. Sort of. “We, ah . . . we ran into each other in the lobby of this very hotel,” she finally said. She looked at Finn. “Right? Isn’t that where we met?”

Finn nodded. “Yep.” No way was he going to help her beyond that, though. The last thing he wanted to do was jog her memory and have her recall that she’d been stalking Russell at the time. Not to mention he was having too much fun watching her get smashed. Of course, he immediately told himself he should be ashamed of himself, thinking it was entertaining to watch a beautiful, sexy woman slip into inebriation that way.

Because that would be wrong.

“That’s right,” Natalie said, setting her glass reluctantly on the table, but keeping her eye on it, presumably in case it tried to get away. “I was here that day looking for you, Mr. Mulholland, as a matter of fact.” Somehow, she managed to pull her possessive gaze from the glass and shift it even more possessively to Russell.

“Me?” Russell replied with no small amount of astonishment . . . or amusement. Then, inescapably, he poured on the charm. “Why, Miss Beckett, had I known you were looking for me, I assure you you would have found me right away.”

Natalie smiled at that, then turned to look at Finn, straightening in her chair—sort of—and treating him to a
very
smug expression. He halfway expected her to say “Toldja so” and stick her tongue out at him.

“Toldja so,” she said.

He waited for the tongue, but, alas, it didn’t appear.

She turned to Russell again. “See, Mr. Mul . . . Mr. Mulholl . . . Mr. Mullallalla . . . Russell,” she finally managed. “There’s this party I wanted to invite you to on Derby Eve. That’s next week, on Friday, which is . . . How many days is that?” Since she seemed to be asking the question of herself, no one answered. Probably no one answered also because they wanted to watch her do math in her current state. She paused, lifting both hands to tick off the days on her fingers, mumbling, “Wednesday, Monday, Saturday . . . No, wait. I mean . . . Tuesday, Sunday, Labor Day . . . No, that’s not right, either.”

By now Russell was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “Next Friday,” he reiterated to help her out.

“Yes!” she said with much relief. Then, with much hope-fulness, she asked, “Can you make it?”

“No,” he said decisively.

She gaped at him, as if she couldn’t believe he would turn her down. “But it’s a benefit,” she tried again.

“No,” Russell told her. Politely, but again, decisively.

She turned to Finn in a silent plea for help, but this time he was the one to look smugly at Natalie. “Toldja so,” he said.

She blew out an exasperated breath and narrowed her eyes at him. Then she turned back to Russell, the epitome of grace and charm. Sort of.