Humming, I drum my fingers on the bar. “As I like to say, an open mind is a terrible thing to waste.”
“And so are opportunities.” She lifts a brow like she’s waiting for me to bat next.
I will, honey. I absolutely will. “Speaking of . . . opportunities. You really must have fantastic night vision,” I say, my way of reminding her that she watched my bet with the guys go down the night I met her. “Perhaps next time you’ll have to consider a different costume. Maybe, a cat?”
She taps her temple. “Your suggestion has been noted.”
I study her, stretching out the wait for my reply. “I could see you in a leather number. Something slinky.”
“With a tail?”
“A tail always completes the look,” I say as the bartender brings over my martini and her Prosecco.
“Here you go, Mister Ford and . . .”
“Bellamy,” she supplies. “Bellamy Hart.”
I lift my glass. She does the same. We’re both waiting for a toast. I take the reins, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “To . . . chance encounters, Bellamy.”
With the glass midair, she seems to consider that, then simply nods. “Serendipity, some might call it,” she says, then drinks.
And those lips on that glass.
This woman.
For the second time in as many encounters, she’s surprised me. I didn’t expect her to walk away the other night. And I definitely didn’t expect her to walk back into my life this evening.
What is her deal? And how long will it be until she breaks and admits she’s hot for me?
No idea.
But I was wrong about her the last time we met.
I kind of can’t wait to find out how I’m going to be wrong about Bellamy tonight.
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.