The Schemer (Harbor City 3)

sappointments, no fighting for every little scrap. Her chest filled, growing with an absolute crystalline joy that couldn’t be measured. Umberto might be a nervous wreck who couldn’t work a crowd if he tried, but the man was a phenomenal talent. Give him a few years and he’d be as well known as Helene’s son, Hudson Carlyle’s artistic alter ego, Hughston.

Heart half stuck in her throat, she turned to ask Alberto what he thought when what she saw made the largest beating muscle in her body drop to her toes. Umberto stood in the corner by the bar, a mostly empty bottle of wine dangling from his fingers and the sweaty, green-tinged face of a man about to spew all over his life’s work. That couldn’t happen. Her insurance didn’t cover debut show nerves, and The Agony of It All had a one-hundred-thousand-dollar asking price.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment,” she managed to get out before she slow-walked across the gallery as fast as she could without attracting attention.

She made it halfway there with what she hoped was not a terrified expression on her face—never let them see you freak the fuck out—when the ever no-nonsense Kiki swooped in, hooked her arm through Umberto’s, and hustled him toward the bathroom while still managing to shoot Everly an I-got-this look of reassurance. If Kiki wasn’t already her best friend, and had been since third grade when she pushed Sadie Almadore in the mud for calling Everly a daddy-less freak, at that moment Everly would have pledged her undying devotion to the woman.

Helene stopped next to her. Obviously the woman had the uncanny ability to know when danger was imminent—of course, raising two boys probably did that to a person.

“That was a narrowly avoided disaster,” Helene said.

“I’ll take the wins where they come.” Especially tonight. Practically on autopilot, her gaze snapped back to Tyler, who was still chatting it up with Alberto. Helene might have a sixth sense for trouble, but Everly could smell a bullshit artist at a hundred yards—and Tyler Jacobson couldn’t cover his scheming stench with the woodsy cologne that made her pulse quicken. “So what’s he doing here?”

Helene would know. From what Hudson had told Everly last week, Tyler’s batshit insane fiancée tried to fuck his best friend, coincidentally Helene’s eldest, Sawyer Carlyle, the night before she was supposed to marry Tyler. Sawyer had turned her down, but Tyler had walked away from the bitch fiancée and the friendship. Definitely a “cut off your nose to spite your face” move of tragic douchebaggery—the kind that showed what kind of loyalty-free dipwad her upstairs neighbor really was. And no, she wasn’t the least bit upset to learn of his true colors after she’d stuck her tongue down his throat.

“Tyler?” Helene asked with a nonchalant sniff. “I suppose he’s expanding his collection.”

“He has an art collection?” Of stick-on-your-wall photos of old-time tycoons, she could believe.

“Why else would he be here?” she asked, her attention focused anywhere but on Everly.

The other woman might scare the Richie Rich set, but Helene and she had been like pepperoni pizza and crushed red peppers since Hudson had first introduced them years ago. Like recognizes like, and they were both horrible liars.

“You know something.”

Helene leveled an imperious glare at her. “I know lots of things.”

“Don’t try the scary Harbor City matron thing on me,” she said with a laugh, then planted one hand on her hip and narrowed her gaze. “Now, tell me what you know.”

Helene seemed to consider her options, pursing her lips together and drumming her fingertips against her thumb. She opened her mouth, but before even a sliver of truth could escape, Alberto and Tyler joined them.

Alberto turned his most charming smile on Helene and made a deep bow before straightening and giving her a teasing wink. “Everly, you must introduce me to this vision.”

If she could have spoken at that moment she would have, but all the words in the world deserted her as she saw a slight flush color the other woman’s cheeks. Embarrassment? Enjoyment? Interest? Helene sure wasn’t giving any of it away.

Helene held out her hand—her left hand with the glittering diamond wedding band adorning her ring finger. “Mrs. Helene Carlyle.”

Seemingly oblivious to the message she was sending, Alberto accepted her hand, brought it up to his lips, and brushed a quick kiss across her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m sure.” Helene freed her hand, flexing her fingers as if she wasn’t used to someone flirting with her—which she probably wasn’t. “If you’ll excuse me, Everly, I’ll go check in on Umberto.”

Doing her damnedest to suppress a grin as Helene strode away, weaving regally through the clumps of potential art buyers gazing at Umberto’s work, Everly turned her attention back to the two men by her side. Tyler looked as surprised as she was. Alberto looked like he was up to something. Oh, this was going to be interesting to watch from a distance.

“I think she likes you,” Tyler said, one admiring dude to another.

Alberto waved one hand in the air. “Of course. Women love me. I’m rich, happy, and I know how to make a woman smile.”

Everly snorted. “And you’re very humble.”

“Never a day in my life,” Alberto said without an ounce of humility. “Now, do I have your yes for lunch on Saturday? Carlo’s fiancée will be there, and I’m sure she’d love to meet you before the wedding. Anyway, it will give me the opportunity to show you a few of the pieces I’ve decided to sell.”

Her gut twisted, her Pavlovian response whenever he spoke of splitting up the Ferranti collection that ranged from the old masters to the art world’s up-and-comers. “You can’t break up your collection.”

Pieces of art were like family. Some belonged together; they complemented one another and strengthened one another. She’d had this argument with Alberto many times without getting him to budge an inch. She glanced over at Tyler for possible backup, but his attention was focused on whatever he was reading on his phone.

“There’s a time for everything, tesoro,” Alberto said, using the term of endearment, “treasure,” he’d been using since they’d met in Italy years ago, as he patted her cheek with affection. “And now is the time for someone else to enjoy some of my treasures.”

Ugh. She hated it when he made it sound so logical—when it came to art she liked to deal only in passion. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”