Spin Page 6

  I considered the moonlit ceiling. “Isn’t that the definition of cocky?”

  “No. Cocky people are stupid people who are overly arrogant about things they don’t know shit about.”

  “Oh.” I followed the encouragement of his hand and slid closer, facing him, until our bodies were touching from chest to knee, my breasts against his ribs, my pussy against his waist. He cupped the back of my knee and dragged it overtop his groin, touching his soft, curving penis.

  “That’s weird, Finn, because I could have sworn you were cocky.”

  “Nope.” He smiled faintly. His eyes were still closed.

  “Hmm,” I said, skeptical. “Well, maybe it’s eight out of ten.”

  He snorted softly.

  I stretched against him, feeling very, very good. “I’ve had more sex tonight that I have in— Do you know the last time I slept with someone?”

  “Last week,” he guessed, to be a good sport.

  I shook my head. “It’s been…a while. I don’t really have time or energy to get messed up in a relationship. The checking in and the paying attention.”

  The cheerleading. The constant shining.

  I’d actually like a little checking in, a little caring. But it was too draining, like being plugged in all day long. The way I ran things now, I could be a bright and shining star twelve-to-fourteen hours a day, for excellent pay, then go dark at night, all alone. No one to see what I was made of, inside, empty inside, like a big bright spotlight shining out, always out.

  It was great. Really great.

  “Ah.” Finn opened his eyes and turned them to mine. “You know, Janey, it doesn’t have to be like it was for your parents.”

  I lifted my brows. “If you bring up our parents again, I’m going to leave.”

  He rolled us over so his body was behind mine, spooning. “Deal,” he said. “I have no desire to talk about our families or the past. We’ll just go with whatever feels right.”

  Heavy and warm, his arm fell over the dip in my waist. The weight of it should have been annoying; I didn’t like to hear breathing in the bed beside me at night, let alone have a heavy male arm draped over me. But this heavy male arm was apparently not a problem.

  “I like what’s happening right now,” I said softly.

  “Me too,” he murmured back, his voice getting heavy and slow.

  But then, a lot of things had happened. I’d gone home with a guy. I’d had sex with him on a car. And sucked his cock. On the dirt. And more was probably coming. I hoped.

  “But if one more thing happens because of you,” I whispered to the moon-air, “it’ll be proof you’re voodoo.”

  One more unexpected, uncontrollable, bright, exciting thing.

  I overslept the next morning for the first time…ever.

  THE SUN BEAMED me awake a few minutes before six. I snuggled down deeper into a soft pillow, avoiding it, trying to orient myself.

  I felt the heat of a male body beside me. I oriented real fast.

  I leapt out of bed, trying to be silent, grabbing articles of clothing as I went. They were strewn down the hall from the bedroom to the kitchen. I snatched up my bag and my phone tumbled out. I reflexively touched its buttons to bring it alive, as I one-handedly yanked on my skirt.

  My phone was dead.

  I stilled, skirt halfway up my calves. I felt cold. This was scary. My phone had never run down before. It was almost a religion for me to plug it in. Car, house, hotel rooms—I crossed myself with the ritual.

  I stared down at its blank, black face in Finn’s kitchen and saw nothing but the murky reflection of my face. Sunrise hit the back of my head, a pale heat.

  If I required proof that I’d toed a dangerous line last night, it was right here. Proof of how easy it is to let your priorities slip away. To slide back into your roots.

  I tugged the skirt the rest of the way on, yanked my shirt over my head, and bolted for the door. I wasn’t going to let anything drag me back down, not even Finn Dante and the greatest sex on earth.

  Or the only guy who’d cared about more than the glossy snapshot from me. The magazine page. The cream off the top. Not that that was their fault. I’d never given a man the chance to want or expect anything more. Finn was the only one.

  I felt a little chill. That could mean something, couldn’t it? That he’d been the only one?

  My heart skipped a beat.

  I tiptoed back into the bedroom and looked down at his face, scruffy, relaxed, with a mouth that made such magic and called me on so much shit. My belly got that weightless, fluttery feel. I really, really wanted to kiss him. But he was voodoo. And I did not believe in magic.

  Okay, actually, it scared me shitless.

  And I already knew what happened if you rode the wave all the way in. You got smashed to smithereens.

  I slipped out the door, exposed by the bright sunrise, leaving behind a scribbled good-bye on the pillow beside him.

  Then I ran.

  ~Finn~

  I WOKE TO an empty bed and a note.

  I had an amazing time. I’m glad you showed up at the end of my rope.

  Thank you.

  That’s what she’d said last time. “Thanks,” whispered hot in my ear, before she’d backed into the shadows on her bare feet and painted toes, her red-brown hair swirling, a firestorm in the wet swamps of Dodge.

  That time I hadn’t seen her again for eleven years. It could have been never.

  Fuck that.

  I rolled out of bed, already grabbing for a shirt, just as my phone rang.

  Seven

  ~ Jane ~

  I RACED BACK to my hotel, locked in battle against my mind’s prurient desire to relive each scene from last night in slow, vivid Technicolor.

  I blew by the front-desk people with an airy wave and urged the elevator up seven floors by cursing at it. I yanked my heels off for a quicker escape, and before the doors were fully opened, I leapt out and started jogging down the hall.

  I stopped short when I saw Mr. Peter J. standing outside my door.

  We stared at each other. Then I took a breath and continued down the hall, big smile on, key out.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sandler-Ross,” I said as if I wasn’t marching down a hotel hallway at six-something in the morning wearing the same rumpled clothes as yesterday.

  “Where were you?” he asked, sounding truly curious. He glanced over my shoulder.

  “Exercising,” I replied brightly. “Tae kwon do class.”

  He eyed my silk shirt and pencil skirt and high heels. “Oh.”

  We both knew I hadn’t been working out, but it was none of his damned business, right? I felt a little excited at the unfamiliar, possibly illegal, thought. He was paying me a lot of money and that made a whole lot of things his business.

  I had no choice but to step nearer so I could enter the room, and he had no choice but to step backward, unless he wanted to be a total intrusive ass.

  “My wife sent me to get you,” he explained, taking a half step back, because he was a partial intrusive ass. “She’s been trying to reach you all night. You didn’t answer your phone. Or email. Or texts.”

  Coldness zigzagged down my stomach. I touched my pocket. I’d forgotten to plug it in in the car. Damned Technicolor. “My battery died.”

  He came up close behind me. I shoved the key into the slot. The little green button beamed a cheerful green light at me.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. I’ll plug in and call her right now.”

  “There’s been a problem,” he said.

  I paused, door half open. “What kind of problem?”

  “The caterer is concerned about having the party at our home. And the extra guests.”

  “Join the club,” I said. It popped out without thinking.

  He stared at me, then went on. “She said doesn’t think she can do it.”

  “She has to do it.” I turned and gazed into the distance over his shoulder, where solutions often hovered. “Maybe rental
ovens,” I murmured after a minute. “And another generator.” I glanced at Mr. Peter J. “How old is your circuit breaker?”

  “My what?”

  “Never mind.” I put my shoulder to the door and pushed. “I’ll call the caterer and—”

  “Olivia fired the DJ.”

  I closed my eyes briefly, slumping against the door. “Olivia.”

  “Our daughter.”

  I opened my eyes. “I know who Olivia is. Why?”

  “She said she doesn’t want the DJ.”

  I felt a spurt of anger. “Then why did I hire one?”

  “Because we told you to,” he said, a warning tone in his voice. “And now we’re telling you to hire another one.”

  “Why would I hire another one if she doesn’t want the first one?”

  “Because my wife does.”

  “That’s a bit risky.”

  “We invest. We’re prepared for risk.”

  We were almost toe to toe. “Your daughter will just fire the next one.”

  He shook his classically constructed, fat head. “She’s very agreeable.”

  “Apparently not.”

  His eyes bored into mine. “Then, you’ll just have to stop her.”

  “How, Mr. Sandler-Ross?” I snapped. “How do you want me to stop your daughter from firing DJs? Shall I use my tae kwon do?”

  We stared each other down. It was sort of exhilarating. In a stupid, self-destructive way.

  Then he said, “Do you know how much I’m paying you, Jane?” and I felt like I’d been pulled over for speeding. Do you know how fast you were going? All the puffy exhilaration wheezed out of me.

  “A lot,” I said quietly. And not just in money but referrals. References. Names.

  Maps.

  “Then you’ll handle this,” he said. His square-jawed face, his dark hair gone fashionably gray, the dimple cut into his cheek—it was all so polished, so tailored for maximum effect. It was making me angry. I didn’t like men like this. I liked men like…Finn.

  I nodded. “I will handle this, sir.”

  He looked at my shirt, then down the hallway again, as if trying to see where I’d really been until six in the morning.

  I had a feeling he didn’t believe me about the tae kwon do.

  The last thing I needed was my boss thinking his highly paid event planner not only had loose morals but was an unstable liar into the bargain.

  I recovered my sanity and beamed a calm smile his way. “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Sandler-Ross. I’ll take care of everything.”

  His brow unwrinkled, and he let out a breath he’d apparently been holding. I felt a small twinge of sympathy. Very small. Much as the guy pissed me off, he wasn’t all bad. He wanted this to go well for his daughter and needed my help.

  That’s why I was in this business, right? To help others? My civic duty, to rein in chaos. I was kind of like a super-heroine. Thus the underwear.

  “I’ll talk to your wife and your daughter,” I said. “We’ll figure it out. Just let me change out of my dobok,” I added, because you had to play the part all the way, or what was the point, “and I’ll be right over. Tell your wife I’ll be there in half an hour, forty-five tops.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “No need,” I chirped and pushed the door wide.

  He started to step in behind me.

  I felt his big body push into my space, into my room, I smelled his punky cologne coming for me, and all of a sudden I wished Finn was there really bad. Finn would not like this. I did not like this. Finn wouldn’t let him in. I didn’t have to let him in.

  Finn would punch him in the face.

  I…would not.

  But I did let the door go. Hard. I might have given it a little push. With my foot. It swung shut with a heavy thud. I think it missed his face. Pretty sure.

  Then I turned and stared at it, feeling oddly, crazily shaky.

  I’d been hit on before, by clients and clients’ husbands and once by a client’s wife. I’d dealt with last-minute firings and flaky vendors and hurricanes blowing through town. I’d repaired gowns and egos and weak drink recipes. I’d located missing fiancés fifteen minutes before they were due at the altar and retrieved lost buttons out of gutter grates. I’d blazed trails through hundreds of events, turning guaranteed disasters into amusing anecdotes, or, best of all, the near-misses went entirely unnoticed. People laughed and drank and celebrated, while party shrapnel fell down all around my head. I can handle anything.

  So why was I shaking?

  Because I slammed the door in my boss’s face.

  Because I had a dead, dark phone in my pocket.

  Because I felt my iron ball of self-control unraveling.

  Because in the heat of the moment, I’d thought of Finn. Then I’d done what I thought he would do.

  What the hell was happening to me?

  You did not get on maps by doing what a pawnshop dealer’s son would do.

  I plugged in my phone and went stiffly into the bathroom and turned the shower on. Steam puffed out all around me, whitish and wet, filling the room. I’ll be safe at work, I thought dully, feeling cold in the hot steam. Where there were things to control and appearances mattered.

  It’s what I was built to do. It’s where I belonged.

  Eight

  ~ Jane ~

  “YOUR PHONE DIED?”

  Lovey stared at me. She couldn’t believe it. Neither could I. Doubt was setting in, I saw it in her eyes, a subtle, guilt-inducing mix of sadness, suspicion, and betrayal.

  I had to fix this.

  Lovey sank down onto the couch, her manicured fingers out to soften the fall. “Peter said there might be a problem.”

  Uh-oh. A problem? Like slamming the door in his face?

  Luckily, I had some cache here. A favorable past I could fall back on. I’d first met Mrs. Lovey last year, when she and fifteen of her friends wanted an historic city tour including transportation, private guide, lunch, and admission fees. She didn’t believe in iPads as tour guides.

  I found her a tour guide and a luxury SUV that could fit all her friends, after which I saved them when the Navigator’s undercarriage caught fire midway through the tour. I secured another form of transportation and had it at the tips of their pointed heels within twenty minutes. It didn’t damage my reputation any that although they weren’t all in one vehicle anymore, the chauffeurs were handsome men driving very big cars. (I’d told my assistant Savannah to call the Chippendales we’d used at a couple previous events. Chippendales with Hummers.)

  Lovey saw me as a miracle worker after that, and to be honest, I kind of was that day. If I had a wall of fame, I’d put that picture in, of fifteen high-class, slightly tipsy middle-aged women from DC, standing beside buff Chippendales and a burned-out Navigator.

  “There are no problems,” I told her brightly.

  Her powdered face looked up at me, willing to be calmed.

  I spent the next half hour doing so. It wasn’t so difficult. I had the box of tissues and a relentless attitude; few could stand against me.

  I spent the next hour tracking down her daughter Olivia, and the third hour initiating and fielding calls from an array of vendors who were not happy about the changes.

  It was all quite chaotic and highly satisfying. The world was slowly bending to my will.

  I didn’t have time to think about Finn—pretty much—or the way my heart got a little cold whenever I did think about him—which I didn’t—and also, my phone was charged. The strange, floaty-cold panic of earlier subsided under the heat of a growing to-do list.

  Olivia showed up. I whisked her away from her mother’s aggressive disappointment and sat her down inside the house to figure out what the hell her problem was with the DJ.

  Turned out it was a DJ, period. Any DJ.

  I paused. “So, you want a…?”

  “Band.”

  “Ah. A band.” I nodded as if this was a perfectly reasonable request. “Do you know an
y?”

  “None that wouldn’t give my parents a heart attack.” She eyed me with a knowing look. “I agreed to everything else they wanted. I said the only thing that mattered was having live music. That’s the only thing I wanted.” Her chin jutted out a little.

  Uh-oh. She’d decided to take a stand. At my event.

  I nodded again. It was a tool, a delaying tactic. It made people think I was considering options, when really, inside, I was screaming, Are you insane?

  Olivia sat on her mother’s expensive divan in front of a window that overlooked the green lawn. Midmorning light glowed into the room and made her, with her cut-glass features and sleek black hair, look like some kind of centerpiece to the room. Which she was. She was heiress to ten to fifteen million dollars. No one quite knew how much, exactly; a lot of things about Mr. Peter J. were hard to pin down. But while Olivia might be a week shy of twenty-one, she looked about fifteen, ethereal and willowy and utterly not up to the challenge of her mother’s bulldozing certainty.

  There were two small touches of rebellion—a pair of earrings studded a single earlobe, and the rounded tip of a tattooed butterfly’s wing peeked out just above her shirt on her left shoulder. Otherwise, she was so pale she was almost translucent, as if a fire burned inside her, but it was banked real low.

  I knew about banked fires. My mother had had one.

  Olivia would be easy to steamroll.

  I didn’t want to steamroll her.

  I wiped my hands down the front of my skirt, then looked at them, surprise to find them doing such a thing. All we had to do was find a way. I’d talk to Mrs. Lovey. Explain… And if that didn’t work… Well, then….

  I glanced at Olivia’s beautiful, translucent face and clapped my sweaty palms together. “Okay, then! I’ll see what I can do.” I smiled brightly, as if I had a plan.

  She eyed me cautiously, as if she knew I didn’t.