Chapter 9
THE LONG CON
This must be what it feels like to be a detective. You have an inkling of what you want the perp to admit, so you push and prod until they fess up.
Trouble is, I can’t decide what I want Bellamy to fess up to.
How hot and bothered it made her when we kissed on stage?
How torn she was over giving me her name when that night ended?
Or why the fuck she’s here tonight?
Perhaps all three. I’ll just tackle them one by one.
With my elbow against the bar, I knock back more of the martini, then tip my forehead to the glittery crowd spilling out across the massive living room.
Beauties and smarty-pants alike are draped on leather couches, hanging out by mantels, clinking glasses.
Getting to know each other. This party is A-plus.
Everywhere, there is mingling. So much of it I could bottle it and sell this stuff.
Oh, wait. I do.
“By the way, Bellamy, I wanted to commend you on your strategy,” I say, as I set down the martini glass.
“Which one?” she asks.
“Excellent question. There really are so many strategies that deserve high praise. But in this case, let’s start at the beginning.”
From her perch on the bar stool, she crosses her ankles, snagging my gaze as she goes. Damn, those sexy, svelte legs will look fantastic wrapped around my waist.
“Let’s go back in time. Shall we?”
She licks her lips, lifts her chin. “Let’s do it . . . Easton.”
My name on her lips sounds fantastic.
But it’d sound better in the dark. Maybe in, say, two hours when I get her naked and under me. Naked and over me. Naked in every position possible.
“I suppose we really have to trace it back to the way you played the long con,” I say.
Straightening her shoulders, she shoots me a questioning stare. “Are you calling me a con woman?”
“Ah, but if you’re a con woman, that would make me a mark.”
Her eyes glint with mischief. “And that would be unconscionable, I presume?”
“It would indeed. But since we had so much fun, from the flirting to the contest to the kissing, I suppose I can’t truly feel like I was tricked.” I gesture to the party. “Especially since you’re here.”
For me.
She draws a sharp breath but nods, perhaps in admission.
“So, now it seems you need me. Or want me,” I posit.
An irritated huff falls from her lips, but she remains quiet.
“Both are fine,” I whisper, a little taunting.
She runs a finger along the edge of her glass. “If it was a con, I think you liked it.”
“I don’t think that’s in question. But I wouldn’t call you a con woman.”
Lifting her glass, she sips her drink then sets it down. “Fine. What would you call me, then?”
A question I’ve longed to answer in person. My eyes hold hers as I savor the view—strong cheekbones, a straight nose, bow-shaped lips. And a tiny scar on her chin, like she fell off a bike when she was younger. Bet it toughened her up.
“I’d call you a very worthy adversary. You set your sights on a target that night, and you didn’t relent until you’d accomplished your goal,” I say.
“I have lots of goals, Easton.” Her cool voice borders on badass. She has so many layers and I’d like to peel away all of them and see what’s underneath.
Ideally, I’d peel off her black lace lingerie too.
Just a hunch, but I’d bet a grand she wears black lace against her creamy pale skin. Lace I want to rip off with my teeth.
Tonight.
“I bet you do have goals. Your focus is razor sharp. Your commitment to the end game is nothing less than masterful.” Enjoying the turned tables, I lean closer, run my fingers along the curls of her chestnut hair. Her breath catches. Yessss. “So much was hidden under the costume,” I muse.
She presses her lips together, like she’s swallowing that hitch, then she answers, “Isn’t that the point of a costume? To play?”
“Oh, you played formidably,” I say.
With a proud smile, she squares her shoulders, a move that accentuates her tits. I don’t even pretend to look away. Fuck gentlemanliness. Her breasts command the audience of my eyes.
“I appreciate the compliment,” she says. “Especially since it was a bit of a risk, playing you like a cello.”
I laugh, tossing my head back. “I don’t believe I’ve been compared to a musical instrument before. Are you a master cellist?”
“No. I was only good enough to play in college orchestra.” She sighs wistfully. “Alas, I set the big boy aside and found new dreams.”
Something I know all too well. “So, I was your cello, and you plucked my strings that night,” I say. “And are you glad you did?” I lower my voice to a bedroom whisper. “You’re here, after all.”
And I bet she came for me.
She swallows roughly, her eyes flickering with heat for a few seconds. “I’m here because there are things I want from you.”
Oh, yes. She wants to finish what I started. She regrets walking away. I won’t even tease her about that.
Except with my tongue.
Now we’re getting somewhere. But I don’t want to be there just yet.
The chase is half the fun. So, I retrace my steps to the night we met.
“Before we talk about wants, allow me to say how utterly impressed I was that you played me with the flirting, and the kiss, and the pool just to say don’t fuck with me. That was gold-medal worthy.”
She ducks her head, perhaps hiding a small smile.
“It wasn’t entirely a hardship,” she says, then sets down the empty glass.
“But now I’d like to cut through the bullshit.
We can play this game all night. As fun as it may be, there’s something in particular I want. I host the podcast A Million Frogs.”
Oh. Okay. We’re done flirting.
But didn’t she mention that phrase the other night? “A Million Frogs. Were you dropping a clue the night we met? Were you hoping I’d pick it up and figure out who you are?”
“Did you pick it up?”
“No, I didn’t. Shame, that.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t trying to drop a hint. I truly didn’t know who you were then. But I already had my invitation for tonight and I was planning to come.”
My eyebrows rise on that last word. “One of my favorite verbs.”
Bellamy doesn’t take the bait. She soldiers on. “Because I wanted to ask you a question.”
I motion for her to go on. “You have my undivided attention.”
“I’d like to do a profile on you and your parties for my podcast.”
Huh. That wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d figured she was angling for me. Or, on the off chance she wasn’t, she was itching to meet some other guy tonight. I strip away all the veneer of teasing. “Is that why you were talking to me at The Lucky Spot? To ask to cover me?”
“No. Like I said, I had no idea who you were then—just like you knew nothing about me.”
Quickly, I find my footing again. “The fact that you kissed me for the sake of a charity donation demonstrates a bit about who you are,” I say. “Doesn’t it?”
Her brow pulls. “What does that tell you?”
Lifting the glass, I swallow the remainder of my martini, then set it down with a clink. “It tells me that you have a good heart . . . and the soul of a black cat.”
She grins. “Meow.”
“So, you want to interview me for a profile,” I say, adjusting fully to her reasons at last. Too bad they don’t align with mine, but so it goes. As Spencer would say, life hands you lemons and you make lemonade. “Why not just email me? I’m not that hard to track down.”
She casts her gaze to the throng of people mingling and meeting around us. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t a charlatan. If I did a profile on you without seeing this with my own two eyes, you’d be able to hoodwink me.”
I lean forward, flick her hair off her shoulder. Her breath catches, and I register our connection once again. “I would never hoodwink you, Bellamy Hart.”
“I’d never let you,” she says.
Heat skids down my spine. Why, oh why, do feisty women get me going? They just fucking do. “Fair enough. So, you’re here to scope me out?”
“Yes, I came to the party to see if this was for real, and to ask to cover you. I didn’t go to the masquerade the other week thinking that the man who’d bet on me would be the same one I wanted to profile. Had I known, I wouldn’t have done what I did.”
“Kiss me?”
“No,” she says confidently, then tap dances her fingers up my thigh. Those sexy, intrepid fingers. A spark of warmth flares in her wake. “Toy with you.”
“But you’re so good at playing with toys, Bellamy,” I say, taking her hand, pulling it off me. Only I don’t let go. I squeeze her fingers. “The thing is, so am I.”
Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
Letting go of her hand, I reach into my inside jacket pocket. “I’ve got a party to host. Here’s my card. I’m not saying yes. I’m saying email me, and I’ll set up a time to hear your pitch.”
I hand her the card, sweep her hair off her neck, and press a kiss to her cheek, lingering till the soft flutter of her breath whooshes across my jaw.
Then I leave her at the bar.
She may have played me, but I’m a master of the game. I romance men and women every single damn week.
Bellamy Hart won’t know what’s hit her.