The Schemer (Harbor City 3)

So what was her play here? Everyone had one—including himself. Always. Was she planning on opening her own gallery? Had Everly brought her in as a potential investor? If so, how would that impact his current plan to get some face time with Alberto? Could Helene help out if she was in a power position at the gallery? Would she want to? What if this was something else entirely? Could she be looking to buy the gallery outright?

“I wouldn’t call it working,” she said as she eyeballed the crowd with a critical eye. “I get to educate the uninformed about their bad taste in art, correct it, and tell them what to buy—and they do.”

The chuckle escaped before he could stop it. Here he was spinning out every possibility and its impact and Helene was just doing what she loved—telling everyone else what to do. When he’d first met her at the prep school his family never could have afforded on their own, she scared the shit out of him. “Formidable” wasn’t the right word for the woman in her late fifties who managed to make ruling the Harbor City elite social circle look like child’s play. She was as tough as dried-out beef jerky, sharp as broken glass, and—underneath it all—a devoted, if more than a little manipulative, advocate for the people she loved. It had taken him a while to figure out that last one. Most people never did.

However, Helene Carlyle had been his first and most influential mentor in how to navigate the shark-infested waters of Harbor City’s elite. He’d be forever grateful and, no matter how many millions he earned, wouldn’t be able to pay her back for it all. Still, working as an art adviser in a small gallery—even if it was with the stated objective to boss everyone into having better taste—didn’t seem like anything he’d ever expected Helene to do.

“How did this happen?” he asked.

Helene gave a graceful shrug. “Hudson asked for a favor for his friend who owns the gallery during one of his shows. Of course the name tag’s horrendous, but I couldn’t change Everly’s mind on that—and I thought my boys were stubborn. So.” She paused, giving him an assessing look. “What are you doing here? I never took you for much of an art aficionado.” She held up her hand before he could speak. “Don’t tell me. It’s for work.”

Bingo. “I’m here for Alberto Ferranti.”

He quickly scanned the crowd, milling in small groups and staring at the primary-colored blobs splattering white canvases lining the walls as if they’d find the meaning of life or even something that looked almost like art in the paintings. There were lots of expensive black outfits on bored rich people. Lots of pretentious expressions that reminded him of someone pretending they weren’t smelling a fart. Lots of ignored waiters offering hors d’oeuvres. A handful of starving artist types stuffing their bags with the otherwise disregarded bacon-wrapped shrimp and pâté on tiny triangles of toast. There had to be nearly seventy people here, but none of them had Ferranti’s signature shock of chin-length silver hair.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Helene shake her head at him.

“You do know,” she said, “that there’s more to life than work.”

Maybe for some people, but not for him—not yet. He had a plan, a scheme, that was going to change everything, and he’d go from being the kid in a donated prep school jacket to the man at the head of the table. Finally. And yes, he was well aware how childish those dreams sounded to most. But what could he say? It was the first vision of success he ever imagined for himself. It was the drive that had gotten him this far, and it deserved to finally be realized. “And this from the woman who could buy most of Harbor City three times over and is still wearing a name tag because she’s at work?”

“You care too much what others think, Tyler. Always have.”

His breath hitched from the verbal kick to the ribs, but he recovered quickly. They were harsh words, but her gaze held kindness, if only for a flicker of a second before the mantle of haughtiness settled back into place. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought himself anyway. But it was a whole lot easier not to care what others thought of you when you came from old money. Waterbury had a stench that was hard to wash away.

Helene waved her hand dismissively. “True power, dear, is wearing a name tag and knowing everyone will still bow before you. Besides, this is more like volunteering to improve humanity’s taste in art.”

“Lofty goal,” he said, just as a flash of silver caught his eye. “And there he is.”

Pivoting, Helene turned in the direction Tyler was looking. The move revealed Everly standing next to Ferranti with her arm hooked in his. The smile on her face was genuine, her shoulders relaxed, her step light. Meanwhile Ferranti continued to talk. They were too far away to be heard over the chatting galler

y show attendees, but there was no missing the excited gestures Ferranti was making with his free hand. The two were obviously close, but just how close was the question—and the possible monkey wrench—to be determined.

“They know each other.” Saying it out loud didn’t ice the burning poker jabbing him in his gut.

“Indeed,” Helene said. “Everly told me that they met in Italy some years ago when she was searching for art for a client. She made an offer on one of the paintings in his hotel. There was some kind of exuberant bargaining. She came back home with the painting and a new friend.”

“Friend?” he asked, images of all the naked things he’d like to do with Everly if she was his friend flashing in his mind’s eye. “Is that what they were calling it?”

“Not that kind.” Helene pinched his arm, hard enough to make him start. “From what I understand, she’s more like a very close family friend, sort of like how I think of you.”

Well, that explained the Mom’s-not-putting-up-with-that-kind-of-talk reaction. He caught a calculating gleam in her eye. He knew that look and didn’t need to run through a long list of scenarios to know what it meant. Helene Carlyle was known to play matchmaker, as she had with her two sons recently. He needed to nip this line of thought in the bud. “Don’t even think it. I’m not the least bit interested in Ms. Ribinski for myself. I am, however, very interested in Mr. Ferranti’s business,” he said.

She smiled, no doubt attempting for it to be less devious and failing miserably. “Whatever do you mean? I would never presume anything where you are concerned, Tyler. Honestly, I’m not convinced you’ve changed your idiotic ways enough to deserve someone of Ms. Ribinski’s caliber.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, unable to peel his attention off Everly and Ferranti as he went through the million and one possibilities of what this little plot twist could mean for his plans and how he could spin it to work in his favor. He’d not expected Everly to actually be close friends with Ferranti.

“Because,” Helene said, drawing out the word in that upper-crust accent of hers. “It’s a Friday night and you’re at an art gallery trying to snag a new client instead of out wining and dining a beautiful woman.”

He loved Helene. Hell, she’d been as much of a mother to him as his own mom, and without the histrionics and melodramatic public scenes that had scarred him right down to his bone marrow. However, that didn’t mean he was willing to be up next in the Carlyle matriarch’s matchmaking project. Time to deflect and disarm.

He turned on the sly grin that knocked the knees off women half Helene’s age and their mamas as well. “Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?”

She didn’t roll her eyes—too old money for that—but her lips thinned into a flat line. “I’m a widow.”

Michael Carlyle had died of a sudden heart attack more than three years ago, a loss Helene still seemed to carry with her—even if she’d gotten good enough at hiding it to make people forget that she’d all but disappeared into mourning after her husband had died. Over the past year, though, she’d come back, rejoined society, and maneuvered both her sons into solid relationships. It was obvious the woman was bored.

“You might be a widow,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and giving her a reassuring squeeze, “but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t stand to have a little fun.”