Neck & Neck (5 page)

Tugging her purse strap snugly over her shoulder and rising up on the balls of her feet, Natalie took off after him.

FINN HAD JUST ORDERED SOMETHING CALLED A HOT Brown and an American pale ale at a place called the BBC Alehouse when someone sidled up on the stool immediately beside him at the bar, even though nearly all the other stools were empty at this hour between lunch and dinner. He didn’t have to look over to know it was Natalie Beckett. No, he knew that by the soft scent that surrounded her—and then surrounded him, too. And also by the way his body responded to that scent. And even more by the way his body responded to the fact that she had sidled up on the stool beside him at the bar.

He swore silently to himself. Russell Mulholland wasn’t the only one who was susceptible to nice girls. Probably because he and Finn had never been allowed anywhere near nice girls when they were growing up. Or when they were adults, either, come to think of it. Speaking for himself, nice girls generally took one look at him and gave him a wide berth. Speaking for Russell, it was the other way around. Russell wanted nothing to do with nice girls. At least these days. Mostly because he’d already met—and married—the nicest girl in the world and lost her. Marti Dennison Mulholland had gotten close to Russell in spite of Russell’s best efforts to keep her away. And when he’d fallen, he’d fallen
hard
. Since her death . . .

Well, suffice it to say Russell had fallen even harder. But this time he hadn’t landed in the sort of nice, stabilizing life that brought out the best in him, like he’d had with Marti. On the contrary. Finn would have liked to think that with Max in the mix now, Russell would have been able to keep going somehow. Instead, he’d reverted to his old ways—tenfold. His life these days was about as tumultuous as it could get. It wasn’t that he was a bad or negligent father. It was just that . . .

Oh, hell. Fact was, Russell
was
a bad and negligent father. He loved his son—there was no question about that. The problem was, he loved Max too much. So much that he was afraid to let the kid get too close, for fear of losing him, too, the way he’d lost Marti.

Finn turned to look at Natalie—who, for some reason, didn’t know enough to give him a wide berth—and was opening his mouth to shoot her down before she had a chance to start carping again about her “event.” But he snapped his mouth shut when he saw that she wasn’t even looking at him and was instead studying the selection of beers on tap. And she was showing way more interest in them than she had in him just a little while ago, when he’d been so certain she was showing him an inordinate amount of interest. She was also, he couldn’t help further noting, glancing up to smile at the bartender with way more sincerity than she’d shown when she smiled at Finn a few minutes ago. The bartender who, Finn
also
noted, was smiling back at Natalie, and doing so in a way that went way beyond simple
this smile always gets me a better tip
friendly.

“What can I get for you?” the guy—who was easily ten years younger than Finn and had that clean-scrubbed, all-American golden boy look about him that women like Natalie Beckett probably couldn’t resist—asked her.

“I’ll have a Nut Brown Ale,” she said with the sort of confidence that indicated she was not only familiar with the product but enjoyed it on a regular basis.

Something about that realization made Finn feel better. Because it meant that she’d doubtless known coming in here what she would order, which meant she had only been pretending to study the assortment of beers on tap in an effort to fake the sort of nonchalance she’d been faking before at the hotel. And that meant she
had
followed him in here to carp some more about the “event” she was trying to get Russell to attend, something that should have irritated the hell out of Finn but which, for some weird reason, made him not feel irritated at all.

That was his story, and he was sticking to it. Except for the part about not feeling irritated. Really, he was irritated. He was. Irritated as hell. Honest.

Ah, hell.

Ms. Natalie Beckett who wasn’t a Mrs. then added, “And a bison burger, blackened, medium rare with havarti and peppers, garlic fries as the side.” She ordered with great aplomb—and without looking at the menu, another indication that she ate often at this particular eatery. Her order also indicated she couldn’t possibly have a date tonight—not unless the guy had completely lost his sense of smell—but Finn couldn’t have cared less about that. Really, he couldn’t. Honest.

Okay, he supposed her familiarity with the menu could mean she had in fact come in here not by design but because she was hungry, and that she really didn’t realize she had seated herself next to a man she had, only moments ago, been trying to seduce—figuratively speaking—with a sweet smile and a plunging neckline.

But he doubted it.

He doubted it even more when she turned to look at him and brightened in the way women did when things were going exactly according to their plans. “Why, Mr. . . . Gustafson, wasn’t it?” she asked, sounding surprised to find him sitting beside her in a way that indicated she was in no way surprised to find him sitting beside her. Nor had she forgotten his name, he was certain. She just wanted to rankle him, the way he’d wanted to rankle her earlier by deliberately calling her by the wrong name.

“Guthrie,” he corrected in a way he told himself did
not
sound rankled.

“That’s right,” she replied affably. “Fitz Guthrie.”

“Finn,” he corrected her again, in a way he told himself did
not
sound
really
rankled.

She made a soft
tsk
ing noise and lifted a hand to nudge back that shaft of blond hair that kept falling over her forehead. The shaft of blond that Finn kept wanting to reach over and nudge back himself. “Silly me,” she said. “I am so bad with names.”

Right. That was why she’d been able to find out more about him and Russell than he was comfortable with her knowing. Would that she
had
been bad with names, he wouldn’t be sitting here with her now, getting ready to shoot her down again before she started carping about her event again. Of course, if that had been the case, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t be sitting here enjoying the soft, sweet scent of her, either.

Ah, hell.

“Look, Ms. Beckett—” he began.

“So you do remember my name,” she interjected, her smile moving into the smug range now.

He ignored her statement. And her smugness. “I appreciate your . . . tenacity . . .” he began. With remarkable restraint, too, since the word he was really thinking was
pigheadedness
, which he was absolutely certain was not a word a man should use with a woman he didn’t want hitting him with a brick. “. . . in your pursuit . . .” he continued with even more remarkable restraint, since the word he really wanted to use was
stalking
, which was another one of those words that put a woman on alert and also made her pick up a brick. “. . . of my employer. But as I told you at the hotel before—”

“You know, the way you say that,” she interrupted before he could finish, “you make me sound like I’m pigheaded or a stalker or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The thought never crossed my mind.”

“But I’m neither,” she assured him. “I simply want to give Mr. Mulholland the opportunity to enjoy the time-honored Kentucky tradition of celebrating the most venerable horse race in the world on the eve of its running, by attending a formal benefit surrounded by like-minded individuals, enjoying Louisville hospitality at its finest.”

“That’s a pretty inflated way to say you want Mr. Mulholland to come to a party,” Finn pointed out. “Especially since it will be everyone except Mr. Mulholland who benefits, since he’d likely be the star attraction and everyone would want a piece of his time. Time, I might point out,” he hurried on when she opened her mouth to interrupt him again, “that is worth more on an hourly basis than even your hostess could afford to pay him. Not that you’ve indicated he’d be paid, since you’re also asking him to pay for the privilege of being taken advantage of.”

“It’s a fund-raiser,” she reminded him. “And my client would be happy to cover Mr. Mulholland’s contribution herself if he agrees to come. And the cause is an excellent one. My client is raising money for a group that—”

This time Finn was the one to interrupt, since the last thing he wanted to hear about was some bleeding heart organization whose contributions went to the sponsorship of self-important artists whose “art” was anything but, or to funding research for more environmentally friendly lipstick. He’d met enough society do-gooders moving in Russell’s social circles to know that most of them picked niche groups whose work eventually found its way back to the original benefactor. “My employer has better things to do than be the centerpiece for a party full of strangers that will benefit him in no way.”

“But Mr. Mulholland will benefit greatly,” she quickly countered. “He has a horse running in the Derby, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“But the race itself is only a small part of the Kentucky Derby experience,” she interrupted. Again. “The parties come close to stealing the limelight every year. If Mr. Mulholland comes all the way to Louisville for the Derby but doesn’t attend anything but the race, he’s going to miss out on so many wonderful opportunities.”

“Really,” Finn said wryly. “And here, all these years, I’ve been thinking the Kentucky Derby was the reason for the Kentucky Derby.”

Actually, he’d never given the Kentucky Derby any thought at all. Not until Russell started investing in Thoroughbreds and was bitten by the racing bug. And even now, Russell had been infinitely more excited about coming to town for the next two weeks than Finn had. Which, in the long run, had just frustrated the guy, because he knew he couldn’t get out and enjoy things the very way Natalie Beckett was suggesting he enjoy them. To do so would mean to be overrun by, at best, admirers and, at worst, psychos. Even in good times, celebrity wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Of course, there were those who said, “Hey, if you want to be rich and famous, you have to take the good with the bad.” Celebrities knew the job was dangerous when they took it, and many of them spent years courting fame, so they had no right to shun the limelight once they had it. True enough for many of them, Finn conceded. But there were others, like Russell—and, even more to the point, his son Max—for whom fame and fortune had come as an enormous surprise and was simply the result of doing something they loved that grew beyond their wildest dreams. And those were the people who did have a right to shun the limelight. Unfortunately—and ironically—by making themselves unavailable, they became even more adamantly pursued.

If Russell had it all to do over again, Finn knew, he would have handled everything differently. But there was no such thing as a do-over in life. You had to make choices one day and deal with them the next.

“Pshaw,” Natalie said, and for a moment, he thought she was disagreeing with his life’s philosophy, and that she believed life was nothing but do-overs. Then he remembered they’d been talking about a horse race. “There’s the Derby,” she continued, “and then there’s the Derby
experience
. As any Louisvillian will tell you, they are two hugely different things.”

“Really,” Finn repeated even more wryly.

She nodded knowingly and was about to say more when the bartender returned with her Nut Brown Ale. To Finn’s surprise, it wasn’t a light lager, which he would have thought a woman would order, but a dark stout that she readily lifted to her mouth. And she didn’t sip it daintily, the way he would have thought a woman would. Instead, she drank apprecia tively and savored it before turning to look at him again.

“The Derby,” she began again without missing a beat, “is a bunch of gorgeous horses with brightly clad riders running around a big oval.”

“Oh, I’d say it’s a little more than that,” Finn objected.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, there’s a million dollar purse,” she conceded dispassionately. “Whatever. The Derby
experience
, on the other hand, is something you absolutely cannot put a price tag on. For the next two weeks, every single day, there will be something going on—often several somethings—that run the gamut from elegant to eccentric. One day there will be a fashion show for enormous hats where they serve champagne cocktails and little Benedictine sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and the next day there will be people dressed up as rabid badgers and sock monkeys, racing tricked-out beds around a track at the fairgrounds and behaving like drunken satyrs.” She met his gaze pointedly. “Now, do you really think Mr. Mulholland wants to miss out on stuff like that?”

Actually, Finn thought, that kind of stuff was right up Russell’s alley. Well, maybe not the hat fashion show, but he’d down more than his fair share of champagne there. And sock monkeys and rabid badgers? Say no more. Not that he was going to give Ms. Know-It-All Beckett the satisfaction. So he said, “To be honest, Ms. Know . . . ah . . . I mean, Ms. Beckett . . .”

But she cut him off—again—before he could continue. “And there’s a rat race. With real rats. And a wine race. And a balloon race. And a steamboat race. Both Mr. Mulholland and his son would enjoy
all
of the above. Well, maybe not the hat fashion show,” she conceded. “But there is fun to be had for all ages and genders during the Kentucky Derby Festival.”

“Really, Ms. Beckett, I don’t think—”

“And the parties,” she further interjected. “My God, man, it’s party central here this time of year.
Every
one hosts a party for Derby, from the Dare to Care Food Bank and Make-A-Wish Foundation to
Playboy
and
Maxim
magazines. Not that I’d encourage the younger Mulholland to attend those last two, mind you,” she added. She continued starchily, “Or Mr. Mulholland, for that matter, since to do so would be to betray my gender in the most egregious way, but hey, that’s not up to me to make that call. All I can do is hope that your gender rebukes things that smack of disrespectful treatment of women and behave in a manner that is, um, respectful.” Again, before Finn had a chance to say anything—and he really, really wanted to say something—she hurried on, “But that, unfortunately, is also out of my hands, other than by ensuring that I myself behave in a way that commands respect from the opposite sex, which is something, quite frankly, I really wish certain other members of my gender would pick up on, but I guess that’s out of my hands, too.”