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“Happy birthday, Madam President,” he said, then reached for her hand. He’d ended up with her glass, and he switched it for a fresh one with a passing waiter. “Catch your breath.” He handed her the flute, and she took it on autopilot. “We’re going over there to hit on Trevor Rosen. He’s in oil. He’s into horses. Breeds them. Hates events like this, but his wife drags him around, and he loves his wife. No, wait. He’s scared of his wife. They’re her oil wells.”
She didn’t move off when he did, and he turned back, looking down at their connected hands. “Problem?”
She closed the distance between them. “He gave me ten thousand dollars.”
“Cheapskate.”
She squeezed his hand. “It was a fluke. Beginner’s luck.”
He squeezed back. “Let’s go see if you’re right.”
She was wrong. So very, very wrong. Trevor Rosen was henpecked and happy to help. His wife would approve, he said as he handed over his eight thousand and then topped it up to sixteen when Cal made a joke at his expense about horse feed.
Clive Pagent was a womanizer. The way he looked at Fin made her feel dirty, but he gave her twelve thousand dollars. George Astropopolous gave her money, as did Norman Chan and Joshua Steiner and all the while, Cal had her back, feeding information, making jokes at the appropriate places and prodding the discussion along if it floundered.
She untangled her earring a dozen times and lost count of the money she’d made, and every time Cal held out his hand, she took it and never wanted to let go, in case there was some kind of voodoo in the very action of holding on to him.
And t
hen Zeke was there, and the best way to describe how he looked in formalwear was louche. If that man didn’t get laid tonight, she’d eat Lenny’s shoes, which might be preferable to wearing them.
“I need to go talk to some people. Zeke will spot for you,” Cal said.
Zeke was watching somewhere over her head. “I’m all yours, Finley, and I’ve got some fine pickings lined up for you.”
She gripped Cal’s hand when he tried to slip away. She could stop now. She’d made more money than she dared hope for.
“You can’t possibly be nervous now. You’re slaying them,” he said, not unkindly.
“You’re my good luck charm.”
“It’s not luck, Fin, it’s skill. It’s the right place, the right people. It’s you.”
If she spoke, she’d blurt out something inappropriate, and Cal deserved time out from babysitting her to do his own thing. He released her hand but stepped closer. “Trust the process. Trust yourself.” He reached up and tangled her hair in her earring, and her heart did a scary, painful double thump that was loud in her ears. He smiled, excruciatingly debonair, and then he was gone.
Zeke clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Let’s go make you some money.”
She watched Cal glad-hand his way across the room, stopping to wave or to smile at one group of people or another. He was a commanding presence, and that’s when it hit her.
“They were only giving me money to please Cal.”
Zeke wrinkled his nose. “How badly does it matter to you?”
There was two thousand dollars and some change in the D4D account when she stepped out on the red carpet tonight. When she walked it the other way, she’d have secured a year’s rent, ensured the new website was paid for, installed, and up and running, and they could immediately make donations happen.
She’d never been in a one woman show, was always part of an ensemble where many performers contributed to the success of the event. It didn’t matter a dime that she wasn’t the star, that she was in the chorus and needed Cal or Zeke as her leading men.
She smiled up at Zeke. “Show me the money.”
Chapter Eight
Cal almost walked into an elegant backside in a tight-fitting green dress because he was acutely aware that Fin was watching him and that screwed with his navigation system.
She’d done a magnificent job, the right amount of hesitancy and humility capped with shy confidence and subtle flirting. What was wrong with casting directors that they couldn’t see how she shone? Hollywood types were damn charlatans, anyway.
He shouldn’t have held her hand; it’s not like she wasn’t poised, but he’d found it entirely necessary to his own mental wellbeing. Fin in her jeans and tee, in her Marilyn dress, and in her cheap business suit were all delectable, but Fin in a dress that dipped and fluttered around her, with her hair styled and her eyes framed by a million lashes, that Fin made him want to keep her to himself, huddle among the installations and laugh at her random explanations of the art she was seeing.
And when she was in action, turning on the charm effortlessly, it was all he could do not to put his hands all over her and warn every other man in the room off.
