Page 11 of One Night Wife (The Confidence Game 1)

“You gave good barstool and excellent alley.” He kissed her again, forehead, cheek, lips; lingered there as she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back, enjoyed the thrill that rippled through him.

This was probably a mistake, not fucking Fin, not finishing with her and inviting her into his world. Not that she’d see it for what it was. But he’d get to see what he could make happen for her.

And he was an expert at helping people get what they wanted, even when what they wanted most desperately was millions of their own cash transferring legally to Sherwood with nothing to show for it.

Chapter Three

It wasn’t easy to feel like a flaky little wannabe when she slept in a bed so big she could starfish without touching the edge. In a few minutes, Fin would put on a big fluffy robe and open the door to big fluffy room service waffles, which she’d enjoy with special, hotel-quality maple syrup and out-of-season fruit and a chocolate milkshake from the kid’s menu.

But she still felt like a flaky little wannabe, because she’d gone to bed alone instead of with Mr. Kiss-Like-Fire-’n-Run-like-a-Thief, Caleb Sherwood.

“Flaky little wannabe should be the name of my next band,” she told the ceiling moldings.

A former boyfriend had called her that. His breakup gift. And here she was, years later, still a flaky little wannabe who couldn’t get a man she’d surprised into getting hard into a bed he’d paid for.

God in a wheelbarrow, that was depressing.

But Holy Toledo, Cal could kiss, and he’d smelled nice and he felt good with his suit coat off and ah, the kissing. It was the height of bad manners for him to lead her on with a steak sandwich and million-thread-count sheets and then hug her chastely goodnight.

It wasn’t even late when he’d left. She’d watched a movie, surfed the porn channel, bounced on the bed, had a long bubble bath, and rinsed out her underwear. Housekeeping had brought her a toothbrush and paste and a plastic comb that helped take the tangles out of her hair. Lord knows where her brush had gone.

Last thing she’d done before getting rid of a bunch of pillows off the bed was check the bank account. It was a whole four dollars richer. Four miserable bastards from the pub had yucked it up donating a dollar each.

Four dollars.

She wouldn’t have to quit on D4D because it was going to quit on her.

Except for that one email she’d received. It had to be a hoax. Someone’s idea of a joke. But the promise of a thousand dollars wasn’t something she could dismiss easily, even if it did have genuinely trolling you written all over it.

To: [email protected]

From: anonymous donor

Will pay one thousand dollars to Dollars for Daughters if the person who stood on a barstool at the Blarney to ask for donations on Friday night will impersonate Marilyn Monroe singing at JFK’s birthday at the pub tonight, Saturday. One time only. Genuine offer. No correspondence will be entered into.

She thought about it while she ate her waffles. Caleb Sherwood wouldn’t have sent that email. He’d have addressed her by name, and he’d given her a hotel room without a qualm. He wouldn’t make her perform for the thousand dollars he would’ve given her to go away when she’d badgered him. Not at the same time as trying to talk her into making an appointment to work on her pitch.

It had to be someone who’d seen her Friday night, someone who’d visited the website and found the email link and then decided on a cruel prank.

That’s what this was. But no one out there would know she was being jerked around for someone’s amusement, so really, the only thing at risk was her pride.

And the chance to raise a thousand dollars couldn’t be thrown away on the basis of a red face. It wouldn’t be the first or last time she had one of those.

It was the best plan she had.

She’d need a wig. Typical, her only acknowledged asset covered up. She’d need a push-up bra; at least she had that covered.

When Lenny answered her phone with the sound of raised voices as a backdrop, Fin gave up the idea of asking for advice. “Just checking in. Everything okay?”

“Ah, not a good time, Fin. What do you need?”

True grit and a slinky dress. Her best friend’s problems magically solved. Ongoing rent money, new website jailbreak money.

“Nothing.” There was a sound you could only interpret as a scream and a door slam. “You go. Take what time you need. I’ve got this.”

“Fin, it’s—”

“My turn to make stuff happen.” Which would mean another barstool performance was definitely on. “I’ve got a plan. I met a venture cap guy last night, and he offered to help me with our pitch.”