The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)

That did the trick.

Her chin jerked up, her face glorious with righteous indignation. “I am not that kind of person.”

“It’s okay. I always had a little bit of a thing for Mrs. Cleaver in the Leave It To Beaver reruns.” He traced a fingertip across her collar bone above the edge of her scoop neck tank top. “Maybe we should look for a pearl necklace. Do you think anyone sells one of those here?”

She smacked his hand away. “You are an asshole.”

“Pretty much.” He laughed and picked the medical utility cart back up again and started walking. “But you’d better keep that to yourself tonight at my mom’s cocktail party.”

She nearly stumbled, but he grabbed her hand again and kept her upright. “What cocktail party?”

“It’s a standing event.” God save him from family traditions. “I haven’t been in a few months, so it’s past time I made an appearance.”

“Not so easy to do when your mom is throwing models and socialites at you?”

“Exactly.” He nodded, sneaking a glance at her and noting the way she was chewing her bottom lip. “But now I have you.”

“You have serious mommy issues,” she grumbled.

No. He had don’t-make-the-grieving-widow-cry issues. “Stop deflecting because you’re nervous.”

“Who said I was nervous?”

“You are trying to gnaw your bottom lip off.”

Like the delicate flower she was, Clover flipped him off as they strode out of the flea market’s front gate and into the parking lot. Linus was waiting beside the Town Car. He gave the thing Sawyer was carrying a slow and slightly horrified up and down look but kept his mouth shut as he opened the spacious trunk. They were pulling out onto Eighty-Eighth Street five minutes later, and Clover was still going to town on her lip.

“Don’t worry, I know you haven’t had time to use the black card yet. I ordered you a dress. It’ll be delivered by the time we get home.” He’d been planning to make it a surprise but offering up the news now seemed like the better plan.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “No way.”

Clover had gone stubborn. What a shock.

“So you already have a cocktail dress?” he asked.

“No.”

“Well, you do now.”

Her eyes were still narrowed, but not so much that she could hide the curiosity glittering in their dark depths. “It had better not be totally fugly.”

For all he knew, it could be. He’d snapped a surreptitious picture of Clover while they were wandering around the flea market and had sent it to a personal shopper at Dylan’s Department Store along with a few notes about what Clover needed. Jaqui had never done him wrong when it came to presents for his mom, so he was confident she’d come through again. Explaining all of that to Clover though would take the fun out of it.

“It’s completely hideous,” he said with as much seriousness as he could muster.

She rolled her eyes. “The next six weeks are going to last forever.”

“Just keep your eye on the fifteen-thousand-dollar prize, Clover, and you’ll make it through.”

Good advice for himself, too, as long as he remembered to take it—especially tonight. His imagination was already torturing him with images of her in a million sexy dresses. And out of them.

Chapter Eleven

Clover twirled around in front of the mirror one last time and smoothed her already stick-straight hair. Procrastinating? Her? Never. Who wouldn’t want to brave a cocktail party at the Dragon Lady’s den and spend the evening lying her ass off?

Completing her spin, she had to admit the dress Sawyer had bought was not fugly. The multicolored, striped sheath dress was fun, fit like a dream, and guessing by the name of the designer on the label, cost as much as her rent. The new black heels, which matched the dress’s black-beaded, sleeveless neckline, were a tad tight on her toes, but not enough to make her take them off. They were gorgeous. She definitely looked put together, but there was no way she was passing for a high-society girl. Thank God, they’d worked that into their cover story during the trip to the flea market.

“Are you going to hide in there all night?” Sawyer asked from the other side of her closed bedroom door. “I didn’t take you for a chicken.”