Shopping for an Heir Read online

  More people than ever were coming to the classes and supporting the cause.

  And the landlord was about to double their rent.

  “I’m a street kid. Had to learn to shark it,” he admitted.

  Declan’s face clouded. “An actual street kid?”

  “Nah. Not homeless. But my parents were what they call ‘free range.’ Lots of time on my hands. Too many bars nearby. I was playing for ice cream money by twelve.”

  “At twelve, I was taking ballroom dancing lessons and spending summers in Russia working on the language,” Declan answered.

  The two looked at each other.

  And shrugged.

  The last two blocks to the garage near the arts center were a quick trip, the booze giving Gerald a buzz, the conversation both jarring and deeply satisfying. You spend years elevating someone to a position of authority because you have no choice, and then you get to know them for who they really are.

  And find out that the very personal underbelly is even better.

  Chapter 4

  Suzanne really did have a date. She wasn’t lying. Stacking the timing of events was intentional, so she could have an out.

  Also, so she could feel the smug satisfaction from Gerald’s reaction.

  At least, that’s what she thought she wanted.

  Instead, she felt sick to her stomach, still reeling from the look on his face.

  The dinner date was at a restaurant just four blocks away, so she walked, her feet killing her from wearing high heels all day, but sore arches were the least of her worries. My God. Gerald.

  How could a man look better after ten years?

  He’d never been a classically handsome man. When they’d first met in Afghanistan, he looked like any other angry soldier. Second tour of duty, worn down and worn in, Gerald had gleaming blue eyes that changed color with whatever he wore, shaved his tawny hair to bald perfection, and wore government-issue uniforms like they were cut to fit him for a Men’s Health cover shot. He had a body like a personal trainer combined with a Navy SEAL.

  Which was—to a T—Gerald.

  Suzanne had gotten off the transport plane and run into him, tripping on the final step of the ramp, her bag in hand flying in an arc.

  The guy had caught it—one-handed—by the handles, his other hand on her elbow, steadying her.

  And he hadn’t moved a step.

  “Careful.” That word. That voice. Like an old-fashioned disk jockey from the 1960s, all funk and sex appeal in vocal cord form, but with a military edge.

  This was a man in command of himself.

  She wanted to lose control in that voice.

  Their eyes locked, and the brush of his fingertips against hers as he handed her the bag had said more than any response she could give, her addled mind, her racing heart capable only of an anemic, “Thank you.”

  He’d looked at her and paused, clearly hiding emotion. “Ensign Dayton.”

  They were equals.

  She returned the favor.

  “Ensign Wright.”

  Now she faced a different introduction, one under considerably more stress, but in an environment that was about forty degrees cooler.

  Like her heart.

  Life in the States, especially in big cities like Boston, still caught her off-guard at odd moments. Two years she’d spent in Afghanistan, and thirty-two years she’d spent living in the U.S., and yet it was the sophisticated, high-stress, high-gloss life of modern urban America that felt foreign at times.

  Grizzled vets often told her that life back home was too stretched out, like taffy (though that’s not the metaphor they’d used).

  “Living life back home as a civilian is all stretched out like a whore’s hole after a ship come to port,” was the exact quote of the other NCOs had said during a rare clandestine drinking session on a brief R&R in Kabul.

  She preferred the taffy comparison.

  She spotted her date the second she walked into the restaurant.

  Normally, she had a split-second judgment that kicked in when it came to people. One of three reactions:

  The Hallelujah Chorus.

  A sad trombone.

  Radio silence.

  Radio it was, then. Her date didn’t trigger any highs or lows inside, which meant this could go either way.

  He was fine looking, with short middle-brown hair the color of a drab leather briefcase, stylish glasses without a frame at the bottom, and the scanning eyes of someone who knew how to work a room.

  Or who thought he did.

  “Suzanne?” He stood, one hand going up to the perfectly knotted red-checked tie, the move calculated. As she moved closer, she saw his eyes were a dark brown, perfectly even, as if someone took chocolate paint and spread it with precision.

  She knew he was showing off his Patek Philippe watch and gold cuff links on his wrist with that move. Good for him. The items were a sign of success, an outward signal designed to convey a message.

  Message received.

  “Steve James?”

  He grinned, holding out a smooth hand, with fingernails buffed and perfectly manicured. “That’s the name I use on the dating site. My first and middle name. I’m actually Steve Raleigh,” he said, looking around the room, his voice elevated. “So great to finally have the pleasure of being with you, Suzanne.”

  Well.

  He looked at her like he expected her to know who he was. As if Steve Raleigh were a celebrity, like he’d just announced he was Brad Pitt or Matt Damon.

  Over the last year, a new breed of guy had emerged in Suzanne’s online dating foibles: the networking dater. He was less likely to find her on OKCupid and more likely to pick her because of her LinkedIn profile.

  In other words, he wasn’t looking for a passion partner, with romantic walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and weekends spent in bed on Nantucket.

  He was looking for business connections, to rub elbows instead of lips, and to find a leg up in his corporate ladder-climbing.

  As a partner at one of the biggest law firms in Boston, Suzanne was a prime piece of filet mignon in this dating meat market.

  That turn of phrase—the pleasure of being with you—was a new one for her, though.

  “Excuse me, I just have to tell you something,” he said suddenly, moving in front of her as if he were interrupting her. He wasn’t.

  She was standing perfectly still.

  “I just have to tell you how fabulous your hair looks.” He smiled, tilting his head, the move somehow practiced and genuine at the same time.

  It threw her into a tailspin.

  “Thank you.” Instinct kicked in and she reached up, touching a thick wave that fell over her shoulder.

  He grinned, pulled out her chair, and she sat, flummoxed.

  Was this guy a networker? Trying to study him without being obvious, she watched as he adjusted his tie again, angling his wrist awkwardly to make the entire face of the watch show.

  “Nice watch,” she said, being polite.

  “What, this?” His eyebrow arched. “Just an old family heirloom.” Eyes drifting to her breasts, he made it clear he liked what he saw. “Your pendant is beautiful.” He caught her gaze. “And so are you.”

  “Thank you.” The direct approach often worked with her. He was intriguing.

  “So tell me more about you,” he said, eyes on her face, searching. Then he reached into his pocket, grabbed his phone, glanced at it, and put it back.

  “Don’t we need to order?”

  He waved his hand. “Already took care of it.”

  She looked askance, trying to decide how she felt about that. “How do you know what I like?”

  “I’ll surprise you.”

  “Let me guess—beef.” He looked like the type to order steaks because he thought they were more manly. To be fair, he also had the body of a guy following Paleo, with a tall, lean, hungry look.

  “You know me so well.” When he smiled, he was a handsome guy, if guarded. “You’r
e from Oklahoma, right?” he asked abruptly.

  Why the weird topic change?

  “Minnesota, actually.”

  “You don’t have an accent.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Military brat. My dad was a naval officer. We moved a lot. Minnesota’s where I finished high school.”

  “You claim it as your home state?”

  “Something like that.” She took a sip of water. “You from a military family, Steve? Did you serve?”

  “Me? No,” he scoffed.

  “Why not?” She withheld judgment from her voice, even if he wasn’t extending the same courtesy to her.

  “Never needed to.”

  “Define ‘need.’”

  “Let’s talk more about you,” he insisted, saved by the introduction of a tray of cooked, chilled vegetables and dressings, the first course.

  “I’m a combat veteran and a lawyer. What more do you need to know?”

  “I’m sure you’re more than that.”

  “I don’t need to be more than that.”

  “You’re a woman, too.”

  Never said I wasn’t, she thought, but didn’t say.

  “You’re a full partner. Did it in seven years. And with a non-top-ten law degree,” he said, adding a sniff that was meant to express praise.

  Bzzz.

  His phone. He pulled it out, glanced at her, then laughed. With an open and friendly manner, he moved his chair closer to hers and reached out, grazing his fingers against her shoulder. “Check this out.”

  As she studied the pictures on his phone, she watched him flip through picture after picture of local celebrities, high-ranking business people, and an array of high-status women in twos and threes. This was his Twitter stream.

  “@bigdealmkr?”

  “Right.” He smirked, took the phone back, and looked at her. “You know who Jessica Coffin is, right?”

  What a strange non sequitur. “Sure. Who lives in Boston and doesn’t know who she is?”

  “We’re good friends.” He announced this with a studied casual tone.

  “You have many good friends in Boston society, it seems.” She nodded toward his phone, which he was currently using. “Looks like you’re well connected.”

  He puffed up. Inadvertently, she’d said exactly what he wanted to hear. “It’s just how my life is. You know.” He flipped from one app to another and flashed a picture of James McCormick, Steve, and two attractive young women at a charity ball from three months ago.

  “Partying with the McCormicks?”

  “And those two models. One of them was made swimsuit model of the year.” His eyes jumped from the screen to her, as if keeping track of something.

  “Nice.”

  God, this was boring.

  The waiter appeared with a bottle of red wine, which he uncorked. Pouring a mouthful for Steve, the waiter handed the glass to her date, who made a dog and pony show over a $20 bottle of wine that Suzanne regularly drank for $10 a bottle, on sale at her local liquor store.

  When he was done winning the wine Olympics, Steve nodded for the waiter to pour a full glass.

  Suzanne covered hers, looked at the waiter with a dazzling smile, and said, “I would prefer a nice glass of Riesling.” She only had so many carbs she could eat per day, and all of them would be wine at the rate this date was going.

  The outraged look on his face seemed so out of proportion to her request.

  This guy was blowing hot and cold. Perplexed, Suzanne tried to figure him out. Part of her liked him—the compliments certainly were nice.

  “But this is an Argentine steakhouse. We’ll have beef.”

  “What’s wrong with white wine and beef?”

  His eyes flew open, the gleam of triumph abundantly clear. He was about to school her.

  The creeping sensation that this whole interaction was rolling out with an unspoken subtext rolled over her like a gust of wind that starts as a breeze and turns into a gale-force blast. He was playing a game she didn’t even know existed, operating by social rules she didn’t know.

  She’d never, ever had a date like this.

  The waiter delivered her wine. Steve crinkled his nose in disgust as she took a sip.

  “That blouse would flatter you more if it were paired with something that emphasized your waist and helped to hide your hips,” he said in a sudden, stiff tone.

  “Excuse me?” Where was this coming from?

  “It looks nice, of course.” He sipped his water. “But it could look so much better if you put some effort into it.”

  And that was it. The words didn’t matter. The attitude did. In those two sentences, Steve Raleigh conveyed contempt in ways she’d felt and experienced before.

  And would not tolerate.

  She wanted to rip his nose off and shove it up his ass.

  Instead, she leaned forward seductively, the top of her blouse opening up, exposing the tips of her black lace bra. He looked down. She’d have been surprised if he hadn’t. Circling the top of her wine glass with a manicured middle finger, she opened her mouth, licked her lips, and said:

  “We’re wasting our time here, aren’t we?” she said.

  One corner of his mouth quirked up, his own sultry smile matching hers. He didn’t get the double meaning, hearing only what he wanted to hear.

  The server, a woman, was in the middle of pouring more red wine for Steve when the neck of the bottle clattered against the rim of his glass, making a teeth-rattling sound, spilling a few drops of wine on the tablecloth.

  “Do you mind? We’re dining here,” he snapped. “You need to be better about how you pour,” he chided. “No wonder it’s so hard to find good help these days. People are sloppy.”

  The server said nothing, jaw clenching. Her eyes met Suzanne’s and she held her gaze. “Sorry.”

  Yeah. Me too, lady. Me, too.

  “Hmph,” Steve replied.

  “What do you do for a living, Steve?” Suzanne asked. If she was stuck with him for another half hour, might as well make small talk.

  Behind his glasses, wary, calculating eyes narrowed. “You didn’t Google me?”

  “No.”

  He laughed, a genuine sound that made her soften slightly. “Googling a date is so commonplace now, I assumed you’d done it. Don’t pretend you didn’t. You know who I am. I’m an investment banker.” He named the top firm in the city. “And I know what you do, obviously. You’ve done well at Phelps, Miller. Then again, plenty of lawyers can do well in small ponds like that firm.”

  It hit her.

  She suddenly knew exactly what he was doing. He glanced at his phone again and she realized:

  He’d been negging her.

  “Excuse me,” she said, standing. Steve was clearly well mannered, for he stood respectfully as she walked away to the ladies’ room, struggling to keep her shoulders relaxed, her purse clutched in her fist. As she turned the corner she saw his head bent over the blue glow of his phone screen.

  Great.

  Her hands flushed hot and cold as she reached into her purse, resting on the settee as she texted her best friend, Kari.

  RESCUE TEXT NEEDED! she typed.

  Ten seconds later, her best friend replied.

  Damn! Sorry. Will text. That bad?

  Hard to explain, but it’s bad.

  Need me to come in person and pretend to be your lover?

  Kari had done that once. It blew up in their faces when the date asked for a threesome.

  Never mind, Kari wrote, as if reading her mind. Didn’t go so well last time.

  I draw the line at tongue kissing you, Suzanne tapped, laughing to herself. Bad enough we shared a sleeping bag that one time when we camped in Montana.

  I’m only a lesbian when it’s negative two degrees outside, Kari joked. What’s he doing?

  Negging me! Only it’s like he’s following a script, she replied.

  Her phone rang.

  “Suz, is he following a script? Remember that dating s
ervice I mystery shopped, where we were trained on anti-PUA techniques?”

  Kari pronounced the word like POO-uh.

  “Poo-uh?”

  “Pick-up artist.”

  “Oh, God. Is that what he’s doing? Why? Why do guys do this shit?”

  “Did he start out with something like, ‘I just have to tell you—’ and then flatter you?”

  Suzanne’s stomach went cold. “Yes.”

  “And did he show you pictures of himself surrounded by hot women and elite men?”

  “Oh my God, Kari, yes!” Her voice went high and screechy. “How did you know?”

  “And now he’s negging you.”

  “Yes!”

  “He’s following the Eight Tips.”

  “What are ‘the Eight Tips’?”

  “These PUA trainers have workshops and books where they train guys on how to get women to sleep with them. There’s a famous list of eight tips for bagging a woman.”

  “Bagging? I’m about as likely to sleep with Steve Raleigh as I am to shove a breadstick up my ass.”

  “Thanks for the visual. You know I’m eating dinner right now.” Kari paused. “Steve Raleigh, huh? I’ll Google him for you when we’re off the phone.”

  “Sorry. What do I do?” she asked. Kari was more worldly when it came to dating. “I just want to tell him off and disappear.”

  “You could,” Kari mused. “But what about having some fun with him?”

  “Fun? You call this fun?”

  “What if you turn it around on him? Make him suffer a little.”

  “Now you’re talking my language. How?”

  “If he’s really following a script, then his next step is kee-no.”

  “KEE-no? Like the game?”

  “No. K-I-N-O. It’s this stupid phrase that’s short for kinesthetics. He’s going to start covertly touching you in non-sexual places as a test to see where your physical boundaries are.”

  “You mean he’ll groom me.”

  “Basically.”

  “This is so gross.”

  “Welcome to the world of the pick-up artist. You’re an object. An animal who can be trained.”

  “So turn the training right back around on him?”

  “Exactly. He won’t know what hit him.”

  “So what do I do?”