The Schemer (Harbor City 3)

“I have very talented fingers,” he said as he put the quarter back in his wallet. “And the rest of me ain’t so bad, either. Talk to you soon, sugar. We have date plans to make.”

“Oh no,” she said, holding up her hand in protest. “I only said I’d accompany you. This is most definitely not a date.”

He slid his wallet into his pants, a self-satisfied cocky grin on his face. “To-may-to, to-mah-to.”

“Of all the—” Her words died on her lips—or more like his lips blocked her words as he dipped his head down and kissed her.

It was as delicious as it was unexpected, and her body reacted before her brain had a chance to process. Demanding, firm lips that promised a million sinfully hot things. An insistent tongue that teased as much as it taunted when he drew it across the sensitive seam of her mouth. His muttered, desperate groan against her soft flesh that made it impossible not to open her mouth, seek out his tongue with her own, and return the kiss. And just like that, it went from a kiss to something more.

Then, he broke away and took a step back, his gaze never leaving her face. He ran a hand through his hair before squaring his shoulders and tightening his tie. “I’ll be back after the show ends so we can figure out the details.”

Lips swollen, heart racing, and reality beginning to sink in, Everly watched as her downstairs nemesis strutted through the crowd and walked out the front door of the Black Heart Art Gallery into the cool night while she roasted inside. Damn that man. She wasn’t taking him to lunch. She couldn’t. If she did, she’d end up either killing him or fucking him—neither of which was a good option. So when he came by later, she’d just tell him so. And she’d keep her lips to herself this time. Really.

Chapter Five

Three hours later, Tyler walked through the back door to the art gallery, accessible from the residential side of the building. The space was nearly deserted, with only a few of the catering staff cleaning up and a few art buyers lingering by the front door chatting with the artist, who looked like he’d just come down off a six-day meth binge. A quick scan confirmed Everly must be in the back office.

Since sitting on his ass and waiting for something good to happen wasn’t what got Tyler out of Waterbury and into the rarefied air of Harbor City’s elite, he wasn’t about to twiddle his thumbs and wait for Everly to come up with a clever scheme to get out of lunch. Left to her own devices, the stubborn woman would probably feign a heart attack. What he needed was an ally to take this plot from plan to reality, one he spotted next to a table littered with wineglasses, a few crumpled napkins, and what could only be described as a very artistically folded show brochure. Helene held a glass of white wine in her hand, gave it a tentative sniff, and turned up her nose in revulsion.

Perfect timing, Jacobson.

Tyler crossed the gallery and, when he got close enough, lifted the bottle of Helene’s favorite Sangiovese wine from Tuscany that he was carrying so she could read the label. It was expensive and—even more important—tasted fantastic.

“Oh, thank God.” Helene dumped the offending Chardonnay into a mostly empty wineglass still on the table and held out her now empty glass.

“I take it you’d like some?” he asked as he poured one for her and then plucked a fresh glass from the table and poured one for himself.

“You know me so well.” She lifted the glass, inhaled the bouquet, and her shoulders relaxed with a relieved sigh. She took a leisurely drink. “Instilling good taste in other people is just so exhausting. So what do you want help with?”

Barely tasting the wine as he stared at the closed door to Everly’s office, he asked, “What makes you think I want anything?”

“Almost two decades of watching you work your brilliant schemes.”

He stood just a little bit taller. “Brilliant, huh?” Okay, he had an ego. Shocker.

“As if you don’t know.” She shook her head. “The Singapore deal was quite impressive.”

“That’ll be nothing compared to when I land Alberto Ferranti.” It really was the deal of the year. Nearly a billion dollars would go into setting up the Ferranti hotels across the U.S. The money was amazing, but the prestige of earning the commission as the project consultant was what he really craved.

“And what does that have to do with buttering me up?” Helene asked, cutting through all the bullshit as per usual.

“I’ve been trying for months to get a one-on-one with Alberto Ferranti.”

Helene raised an eyebrow. “You and every other hungry consultant in town.”

“Exactly,” he said, relieved that she got it right away. “I could finally make that happen Saturday, but only if Everly doesn’t murder me at lunch at Alberto’s. I may have finagled an invite as her date earlier when she couldn’t refuse.”

She took a leisurely sip of her wine. “So how do I play a part in this little scheme of yours?”

“You should come, too. She’ll say yes if it feels less like a forced date.” Not that he wanted a date of any kind with his snarly neighbor. It was bad enough that he couldn’t stop kissing her in the middle of their inevitable arguments lately.

“So I’m the…what do they call it?” Helene asked. “Third wheel?”

“Come on. We both know you’re bored. Admit it.” He waved his hand, gesturing to the gallery, now empty except for two waiters picking up the very last of the trash and giving Helene a wide berth, before turning back to face her. “If you still spent most of your days maneuvering your sons into doing what you wanted them to, then you wouldn’t be here with bad wine and good art.”

“Great art,” Everly corrected, her voice strong and sure behind him.

He pivoted toward her voice—the one that did things to his dick—and watched her stride across from the nearby door of the staff break room where the caterers had set up. Damn. She never did or said what he expected her to. And he sincerely hoped she hadn’t caught his entire conversation with Helene.