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“It seemed…I don’t know, fake, deceitful.”
“No one was deceived. Zeke got what he needed, and I was willing to give.”
Fin rubbed her forehead. “I thought it would be different. I thought I’d have a script with certain trigger words or phrases, and you’d coach me in how to deliver it.”
“Every con—” He coughed to cover that flub and started again. “Every conversation will be a little different, but it will follow the same basic formula. You’ll approach a well-researched target. You’ll engage their interest, you’ll flatter, you’ll ask for something sm
all, which they’ll agree to. It might be as insignificant as holding your glass while you adjust something on your dress.” Yes, that would work well for her with men—draw attention to her body.
“You’ll rope them in, tell your story, convince them they’ll be missing out if they aren’t involved, and then close the sale. Later, when you get comfortable, you can up the stakes like we did and,” he almost said trick, but went with the word she’d already used, “manipulate your target into giving you a higher amount than they first agreed to.”
Downcast was not an expression that suited Fin. And it didn’t sit well with him that he’d put that somber look in her eyes, that upside-down arc in her lips. He needed to see her smile again. “And yes, you can have a script. In fact, it’s a good idea.”
He leaned over the table and hit the console. “Camille, would you bring my laptop please?” He turned back to Fin. “Let’s write you a script. You’re going to need to know it by heart by Friday night.”
“Friday night?”
“It’s in the future,” he said, when he’d see how bright she could shine.
Chapter Seven
Fin opened the door to Lenny, took the garment bag out of her arms, and put a wine glass in her hand.
“Where is that ugly cat?” Lenny asked, one foot over the threshold, casting her eyes about.
Fin glanced over her shoulder for Scungy. “Don’t call him that. He’s very sensitive about his looks.”
Lenny stepped inside and went straight for the open wine bottle. “If he was sensitive about his looks, why did you give him the weird name?
“I thought it meant something else.”
Lenny sat on Fin’s one decent chair. “What does it mean?”
An Australian she’d shot a Febreze commercial with told her it was slang for heroic. “It means scuzzy.” But he didn’t tell her that until Scungy was answering to the name as best a cat with serious socialization issues could.
Lenny gulped her wine, then coughed. “I was going to call you a sap, but someone whose whole life has been a lie should keep her thoughts to herself. Tell me again what this thing on Friday is?”
“Art exhibition. Something, something retrospective, where rich people congregate richly.”
“The Remy D’Cartan Retrospective.”
“That’s him.”
“Her.”
“I’m not going for the art. I’m going to fleece the rich people.” And Fin would be going in her underwear if there was nothing in Lenny’s garment bag that fit. Fin didn’t own retrospective-ready, rich-people-fleecing clothing.
“And you’re going with Cal Sherwood, as like what, a date?”
She unzipped the bag, and it revealed several natural wonders in silk and floaty fabrics. “No. He was very clear it was not a date in the traditional sense of maybe I’ll get laid. But he is sending a car, and he’s going to spot for me.”
There were shoes, too, and a soft jewelry pouch, and no one had ever sent a car for her.
“Spot?”
Fin held up a full-length, creamy-colored dress that was slashed to the waist at the back. “He spots. I noodle.”
Lenny guzzled. “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds bedroomy.”
