Page 9 of Shopping for an Heir
“Does what work?”
“The aggressive feminist act.”
Okay. Gloves off.
“Shall we get to the point, then?” she said, shoving a piece of chilled marinated carrot in her mouth. Might as well get something in her poor stomach.
“The point?”
“You’re not here to get in my pants, Steve. You’re here to get into my client portfolio.”
Most unctuous men would have spluttered and denied, gone out of their way to protest that they would never do such a thing.
Not Steve Raleigh.
One corner of his mouth curled up. His eyes shifted, darting around the room, assessing the layout.
And then he leaned forward, eyes on her breasts, and whispered, “You’re not really my type, Suzanne. But I would love to be friends?”
The Qualification. The negative close. Wow. He was a paint-by-numbers guy.
Suzanne had to give him credit. He exhibited more male prowess than she expected. The guy was a typical frat boy, the follower, the clinger who did whatever he was told for the sake of pack mentality. She knew the type well.
She’d commanded hundreds of guys like Steve.
And she knew that she’d be in charge in the bedroom, too.
Not that it would ever get to that point.
“You’re here to network. Not to screw me. Admit it.”
“I’m here for the same reason you’re here, Suzanne.”
“Which reason is that, Steve?” she asked as he helped himself to a big chunk of red meat.
“Don’t be coy.”
Coy was a word that no one had ever applied to her.
“Coy?”
“You looked me up. It’s cute of you to say you didn’t, but you did.”
“I didn’t.”
He smirked. “Whatever. You know that my bank and your firm have enormous potential with the MacAlister account.”
Here it came.
“MacAlister.” She knew the account well. It was her baby.
“I know the heirs to the company are in a vicious fight. We’re invested—deep.”
We, she assumed, meant Steve. Not his firm. She knew how investment bankers worked.
“And you’re looking for insider information?”
He had the decency to pretend to be shocked.
“What? No. Of course not. I would never, ever violate the law.” His voice was steady as a level. Was he purring? “Just two colleagues getting to know each other better, chatting about work, becoming more intimately acquainted. If we happen to discuss the MacAlister account, it’s pure coincidence.”
Coincidence.
She’d had quite enough coincidences for one day, thank you very much.
A part of her wished this had really been just about Steve using his PUA techniques to get in her pants. As disgusting as the synchronized, slimy gestures were, the idea that he used those techniques as a gateway to get into her business network made it all worse.
A new server appeared, a young woman with a bouncy ponytail. Shift change, apparently. “Ready for the dessert menu? Coffee? Another—”
“We’re ready for the check,” Suzanne and Steve said in unison.
At least they had one thing in common.
He gave her an irritated smirk. “You’re hard core. Nothing like most women I date.”
“What are most women you date like?”
He began to take a breath, halting midway, the puff of air artificially cut off. The sound was like someone being scared on a very cold morning.
“Not like you.”
“How tautological.”
“You don’t need to pull out grad school words to prove your intelligence. I know what that means.”
“I wouldn’t have used the word if I’d thought you didn’t know the meaning.” She touched his hand, smiling.
He flinched. From the look on his face, he clearly didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.
“Here’s the check!” Chirpy the Server announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Steve picked it up, eyed Suzanne, then sat there.
Saving him the trouble, she pulled three twenties out of her purse and set them in the check folder. Her half. He matched it, remaining silent.
Without another word, they walked out of the restaurant. Expecting to separate at the covered entrance to the restaurant, Suzanne was surprised when Steve followed her up the stairs and onto the sidewalk, side by side.
“So,” he said, moving closer, coming in for a kiss.
Oh, no.
No no no.
Aside from the fact that there was no way that man’s tongue was getting anywhere near her, if she kissed him right now all the lipstick she wore would make him slide off onto the curb.
“Where’s your car?” he asked, smiling at her in a way that made her love her dog even more.
“I took the T.”
He shuddered. “How can you stand it?”
“You drive into the city every day?”
“No. I live in Back Bay now,” he crowed.
“And you have a car?” That was overkill.
“Of course! A Beemer.”
Of course.
She began a slow walk back toward the arts center, the ground dark with a light rain that must have fallen during their short dinner. A handful of dive bars speckled the way, mixed in with a fancy coffee shop, a bead store, a head shop, a co-working center and an ancient dry cleaner.
“Suzanne, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” Steve announced, his voice contritely pompous. How the hell did he manage that contradiction?
“Yes?”
He reached for her elbow. She took her finger and spelled out the word ‘asshole’ in cursive on his chest.
He let go.
“I believe I gave you the wrong impression with this date.”
She kept walking, but watched him, giving him her full attention as one does with toddlers and men wearing Jason masks.
“Yes?” she urged him. Long past the point of being romantic, the date had turned comical. At least she’d have a good story, as Kari often said after spectacularly bad dates.
“I didn’t seek you out because of your partner status at your firm.”
“You didn’t?”
“Not initially. Your picture was gorgeous and your personal statement caught my eye.”
She laughed.
“My best friend wrote that.”
He perked up. “Is she single?”
Sliding to a halt, she was simultaneously grateful and furious when his hands reached out to steady her, her fingers gripping his forearm as one of his hands slid around her waist. Righting herself quickly, she spiraled out of his grasp.
“Can we get a selfie before you go?” Steve asked, reaching into his jacket pocket. “I have my selfie stick and we can—”
She grabbed her phone and pulled up his Twitter stream.
She came out of the bathroom looking like a goddess.
Her hand’s on my crotch. Score!
Pic to follow to prove I bagged her.
Just then, the door to a bar a few feet away opened, spilling neon light and the raucous sounds of sports games and billiards into the city streets. A dark-haired man accompanied by a bald friend came into the light, then shadows, both of them tall, one bulkier and more muscular, big and rippled with—
No.
“Suzanne?”
Gerald.
“STEVE?”
Declan.
Her hands flew to her face. She looked like Pennywise the Clown married Tammy Faye Bakker.
“What a wonderful coincidence!” Steve called out, looking like a kid wandering the streets playing Pokemon Go who found a Dragonite. “Declan McCormick! How’s it going, my friend?”
And then Steve grabbed Declan in a manbrace, the bromance version of a hug.
Suzanne had seen Gerald in combat, bullets whizzing by, IEDs destroying jeeps, body parts flying and hardened soldiers screaming for their mamas. She’d watched him during ten days without a shower, seen him struggle on a half hour of sleep a night for five days straight, and witnessed countless acts of stress-filled bravery.
Not once had she ever seen a look of utter shock on his face like this.
As she watched him, Gerald’s shoulders expanded, chest growing, arms flexing in a primal move that made it clear he was preparing to defend Declan in some physical way.
“What the hell?” Declan said, shoving Steve away. “What are you doing? I hate you!”
Declan McCormick was her new favorite client.
“Suzanne! Surely you know my friend Declan McCormick? Of Anterdec? We go back a long way. He’s such a joker!” Steve’s shit-eating grin made it clear this was spectacle. More status-by-association. Performance. Nothing but show. Steve was using Declan as some kind of status symbol, as if being seen with him bolstered Steve in her eyes.
Declan looked like he was about to deck Steve.
Then again, Steve didn’t seem to care what she thought. He only cared that the ruse of being friends with Declan happened at all.
“Declan,” she said smoothly, reaching for the man, having met him across the boardroom table once a year for his mother’s family trust. At most, she’d shaken his hand those seven times. But with a steely look that asked for his buy-in, she reached up—not much, for she was a tall woman—and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. His arms wrapped around her in a polite hug.
Her eyes met Gerald’s.
Who looked like he needed to kill both men now.
She pulled away, the smug look on Steve’s face making the decision for her. The next words out of her mouth had to happen.
Had to.
“Last time I saw you, Declan, you were naked.”
Steve gaped.
Declan played along by grinning, arching one dark eyebrow, and making a sexy sound in the back of his throat.
