One Night Wife (The Confidence Game 1)

Cal found her. He came up behind her, his fingertips to the small of her back, and said her name in her ear, sending a shower of sprinkles down her spine. “You’re beautiful.” In this moment, she was made of air and sparks.

He didn’t say she looked beautiful, but that she was. She’d been assessed for beauty and passed over too many times to think his compliment was anything more than Cal being urbane and charming and Lenny’s dress working wonders. Still, she liked hearing it, and she didn’t turn to look at him for fear he’d render her solid matter again. “It’s all borrowed.”

“As all glamor is. Beauty is an entirely different matter.”

That snagged her breath. He was so, so dangerously charming. Even without turning, she was swamped by his presence. The midnight of his suit, a flash of stark white shirt front and cuffs. He smelled amazing, citrus and warm spice. She wanted to lean into him, knowing he’d hold her upright.

“You’re going to be fine, Finley. It’s a performance, nothing more.”

It wasn’t the room with its army of penguin suits and swirls of brilliant color that was testing her now—it was the man. She gave him a Marilyn quote because she didn’t have any of her own words available.

“I don’t know if high society is different in other cities, but in Hollywood, important people can’t stand to be invited someplace that isn’t full of other important people. They don’t mind a few unfamous people being present, because they make good listeners.”

The terror was that she was the unfamous and Cal wanted her to talk.

“You’ll be famous before the night is out.”

Now she turned to him. “I don’t want to be famous. I’m in over my head. You really think I can go in there and talk rich people I don’t know into giving me money?”

“How is it different to standing on a barstool, hiking down your T-shirt, and doing the same thing?”

She glanced at all the glamor. It was refined, the viciousness hidden under layers of expensive fashion and good manners. This wasn’t the Blarney. These weren’t Friday night drinkers looking for a distraction, and she was far too sober. “For one thing, that totally failed.”

“You didn’t have me then.”

Did she have him now? “You won’t abandon me out there, will you?”

“Only when Zeke stands in.”

“Exactly how is this going to work? How will I know who I’m pitching?”

“I won’t introduce you to anyone who’s not fair play. And there isn’t anyone in this room not wealthy enough to give and not impolitic to be rude while I’m with you.”

Which told her how rude they’d be if he wasn’t.

He stepped in front of her. “You look the part. You have your script. What’s your favor going to be?”

In the role play at Sherwood’s offices, it was the moment Zeke got Cal to sign him in at the golf club. Fin’s equivalent had come to her in the car on the way here when she realized Lenny’s lovely diamond earring kept getting twisted in a tendril of hair she’d left out of her up do. It was twisted with her hair now.

She held her champagne flute out and Cal took it. She pulled her hair out of the earring and held her hand out for the glass again. “Thank you so much.”

He laughed. “You’re a natural.”

With him, maybe. Cal, who looked like old Hollywood in his tux, with his inky dark hair, strong jaw, and digitally enhanced blue eyes.

He offered his arm, and she wrapped hers around it. “Are you scared I’m going to bolt?”

“I’m scared you’re going to eclipse the sun.”

Cal Sherwood, you keep saying things like that, you are so getting kissed.

He walked her slowly into the room, not going to knots of people, but focusing first on the art. It was interesting; both large and miniature scale, provocative and amusing, but whatever the artist, Remy, was trying to say was mostly lost on Fin. What was obvious was that Cal understood art, and he wanted them to be seen arm in arm. She didn’t know what to make of that, either.

They were standing by a person-sized, yellow rain boot that was poised to stomp on a mini skyscraper city when he said, “The blond guy in the old-fashioned tux.”

“You know him?”

“You’re going to pitch him. His name is Halsey. He runs an investment fund. Works hard. Kind of dull. Has a thing for vintage. Single. Loves his mother.” Cal dropped his arm, and they were two separate people again. “Ready?”