Fool Me Forever (The Confidence Game 2)

Halsey buzzed promptly at 6:45 p.m. and walked in wearing a divine charcoal suit with a turquoise tie and pocket silk. He sucked all the air out of the room like an explosion with his full-body glamor. She half wished Mallory was here to see him and not at Ginny’s for a Netflix binge and sleepover.

She fiddled with her diamond bracelet and then transferred her nervous energy to her earrings and checking inside her clutch rather than do anything that might be considered swooning. He had to know he looked fine; there was no need for her to fawn over him. She needed a drink, because she did not need to think about being kissed as a prelude to getting him out of that suit. You are in so much trouble, trouble, trouble.

“It won’t be a late night,” he said. “I’ll have you home by ten thirty. Earlier, if we’ve made contact.”

Too early, and it would be a waste of this dress and the time spent on her hair and makeup and agonizing about just how she was going to make the most of introducing them to Cookie Jar.

That was the objective tonight. It was simple enough. After this, it got more complex. A series of repeat meetings, each allowing Halsey to spin his web of deceit like an enormous charcoal spider who could lull you into trusting his silken hammock and then bite your head off.

It was notable he hadn’t made any comment about her appearance. It was the obvious thing to do, and he didn’t go there. It’s not like she needed to be told she looked good. She knew she had room presence, and this wasn’t a date. She still wanted to kick his shins for the oversight. She closed her clutch and clutched her house keys. “Let’s go.”

“Wait. Your arm. That bruise.” He frowned. “Did something happen?”

He hadn’t made any comment about her appearance, but he noticed a slither of faded purple unicorn. She tugged at her sleeve until it was covered. “It’s not a bruise, it’s a fake tattoo that didn’t wash off.”

He visibly relaxed as if he was relieved he didn’t need to seek vengeance on whoever had given her a purple splotch. It gave her the silliest thrill that he’d gotten all puffed up and protective.

He held the door for her. He had a town car waiting. It wasn’t a date, but apart from the fact they weren’t talking, it had all the trimmings of one. He didn’t talk in the car, either. He kept to his side of the back seat, and she kept to hers, except that her skirt spilled over, tipping against his legs. “Sorry.”

“It’s no problem.”

The problem was how stiff they unexpectedly were with each other. “We’d better warm up,” she said.

“How was your week?” he responded.

“Is that written on a cue card?” Questions to ask a date.

He gave her a quizzical look. “I just wondered how your week was.”

“It was okay. Thank you for asking. How was yours?”

“It was okay, too.”

She turned her face away so he couldn’t see her smile. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was nervous from the way he rubbed his finger rhythmically over a smooth silver cufflink.

He made a grunt of annoyance. “I hate small talk.” She turned back to see him close his eyes and drop his head to his hand. “I’m making this awkward. It’s”—he touched the hem of her skirt—“I should’ve asked who the designer was. It’s a classic dress.”

He should’ve simply said, “You look lovely,” like any regular date might. “It’s a vintage Dior from 1955. The original was designed for Sophia Loren. I bought it at auction, back when I did things like that.”

“And the shoes?”

“You’re not interested in my shoes.” She threw him a bone. “You’re doing fine with the small talk.” Although their body language was blind date from hell.

“I am interested in your shoes. They’re incredible.”

They were rather incredible, and there was joy in wearing them again. “Dolce and Gabbana glass slippers.” Although they were translucent crystal-studded PVC and leather rather than actual glass with four-and-a-quarter-inch heels. They essentially looked like she was walking on air.

“Cinderella shoes,” he said.

She was no Cinderella. She’d always been at the ball, except for this recent history that was more ugly-stepsister oriented. Halsey might well qualify as her fairy godmother, except she’d make her own kingdom from here. “They were two grand. I won’t be leaving one behind.”

He smiled. Goddammit, he was drop-dead handsome; he made her heart hiccup. How is he still single?

“I’ll try not to be so weird,” he said.

How is he not in jail?

He did slightly better at pretending they were together when they arrived. He helped her out of the car, and he was every confident New York millionaire she’d grown up with. A good many of them were frauds, too.