One Wrong Move (The Connovan Chronicles Book 3), page 15
Stanley and Quincy, the two dachshunds, and Richard are headed my way. He’s wearing another flat cap but no jacket this time, just a dress shirt with a down vest.
“Good morning,” he tells me. Quincy sits politely at his feet while Stanley nips around mine. “Isn’t it a fine day?”
We end up walking together in the garden. Now that I know how to access it, I’m here more often, in this beautiful and serene space reserved for local residents. The fountain in the middle bubbles happily, and Stanley revels in my pets, his little tail wagging. His floppy ears are like silk.
“I have a ball in here somewhere,” Richard mutters and reaches into the pockets of his vest. He holds up the ball to me with a knotted hand. “If you want to keep him entertained.”
I spend a solid hour chatting with Richard and playing with the dogs. He’s British, almost aggressively so, but he doesn’t seem to mind my small talk and aimless hovering. Quite the opposite.
When I finally head home, the townhouse’s glossy black door is wide open. Two men walk up the steps, carrying a giant cooler between them.
Preparations have begun.
I wave hello to the middle-aged woman standing in my living room—in Nate’s living room—and giving orders to caterers, porters, and all kinds of other personnel.
I sneak past everyone up to my room. Nerves keep me there for most of the afternoon. I read a book, search for a potential new apartment, and select what two art museums I want to go to the next day.
As the afternoon drags on, I choose a dress to wear tonight, only to change my mind and pick out another, and then another. I finally settle on a black dress that goes down to my ankles. It covers a lot… but it’s formfitting, and that makes it revealing all the same. I usually wear an oversized blazer with it, but standing in front of my huge bathroom mirror, I decide to skip the blazer.
The old me would cover up. Not the new me. Not London me.
Downstairs, the music starts to play, and I hear a pair of hurried feet descending the stairs outside my room.
Nate.
He’s home.
I don’t know anyone but him at this party.
I barely know what kind of party it is.
Cracking open my bedroom door, I peek through the gap. There are voices downstairs. Plenty of them, and for a moment, I consider closing the door and hiding. And maybe the old me would have done that.
Retreated with a book.
But that’s not the person I want to be. The person I’m working really hard to become, to inhabit, who embraces opportunities when they strike.
I walk down the stairs.
The first floor of Nate’s townhouse has been transformed into an elegant bar. People mill about, glasses of champagne in hand. The front door is open, and a man is standing just outside. Is that a bouncer? At a house party? Music is playing from speakers I can’t see. They must be hidden.
My steps slow as I approach the bottom of the stairs. I’m scanning the room, looking from person to person. I don’t recognize anyone. Most look about my age, some are older, and a few younger.
It’s a good thing I didn’t throw on my blazer. But perhaps I should have worn heels instead of my ballet flats. People are dressed to the nines.
I run my hand down the banister. So far I can’t see him. Not in the living room, nor in the adjoining kitchen…
But then I spot him.
Standing in the doorway to the study, hands in his pockets, talking to the two men whose faces I cannot see. He’s nodding to whatever they’re saying, but his eyes are locked on me.
Watching me descend the stairs.
I smile at him, excitement rushing through my veins. It’s been a long week without him.
His lips curve in response. It’s a tiny reaction, but it’s there. A silent hello.
I wind my way toward the kitchen island where I usually have my breakfast. Right now, the space is teeming with people. A woman in an apron is pouring more glasses of champagne, and the expensive stone countertop is laden with canapés and snacks.
As house parties go, this is a far cry from the small dinner parties Dean and I used to host.
I grab a flute of the bubbly and a small cracker with some kind of pâté on it. Catch the snippets of conversations around me. Something about the investing season is almost over and stocks are a winter sport drift my way, and I wander to the back door that leads to the garden.
I don’t know how to introduce myself. Hi, I’m Nate’s… live-in friend?
His art adviser. That’s what he called me at the gallery, and it’s not incorrect. False impressions and all that. Maybe it’s time I learn to use them to my advantage, too.
“You came,” Nate says.
I turn to find him beside me, with his own glass of champagne in hand. He looks calm, serene even, his face pleasantly neutral.
Like he knows he’s being watched.
“You’re back,” I say. “And considering all I had to do was walk down the stairs, it wasn’t hard.”
He looks down at my dress, and a smile plays on his lips. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thank you. Um, who are all these people?”
“I have no idea,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, that can’t be true. Who put the guest list together?”
“My assistant, the party planner, and my brother,” he says. “I made a few additions.”
“Really?” I look over my shoulder, eyes halting on a group of beautiful women standing by the dining room table. “Who?”
“You, among a few others.”
I nudge his shoulder. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
“I wasn’t going to confine you to your bedroom.”
My gaze meets his. “Haven’t seen you all week.”
“No. I’m sorry about that. The trip had to be extended.” He sighs, eyebrows scrunching together. “Our supplier in Berlin was delayed getting to the meeting, and we couldn’t come to a… solution. I had to stay longer to hammer it out.”
Despite the otherwise pleasant expression on his face, there are faint circles under his eyes and tenseness to his jaw.
He’s wearing a mask.
“Well, it was very quiet around here without you.”
“Was it? I’m sorry.”
“You should be. I was forced to tackle several of my goals on my own.”
His eyes darken. “Which ones?”
“Um, going out to a bar by myself. I also went to the movies alone after work on Thursday.”
“All right. Good job,” he says. “If you did number seventeen, don’t tell me about it. I’ll never be able to see the guest bedroom in the same light again.”
A laugh escapes me, but I can’t look at him. “It’s still so embarrassing that you saw that.”
The threesome I had impulsively put on the list.
“I don’t think embarrassing is the word I’d use,” he mutters. He takes a long sip of his drink, his eyes thoughtful. “Two men? A man and a woman?” His eyebrow lifts. “Or two other women?”
I look over my shoulder. “We can’t discuss that here.”
“Why not?” he asks. “It’s a party, isn’t it?”
“It’s not that kind of party.” But then I look around—at the beautiful people in elegant dresses and suits. Take in the crooning music playing from the hidden speakers. Scrutinize the flowing bar. “Wait. It’s not, right?”
He snorts. “You think I’d throw an orgy and invite you?”
“You’d throw an orgy and not invite me?”
“If I did,” he says calmly, like this isn’t the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had, “I’d warn you first. Now come on.” He leans closer, his eyes on mine. “Which kind of threesome do you want?”
“Nate!”
“What? Want me to go first?”
My eyes flare. “You want to have a threesome?”
“I’ve tried it.” The words roll off his tongue ever so casually, smoothly, his eyes not leaving mine. Like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say.
“You have,” I breathe. “What kind?”
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s entirely fair,” he says. “You just don’t like it.”
That makes me grin. “I was trying to give a false impression.”
“Good try, but I’m the master of them,” he states. His eyes drop briefly to my lips, then flit away.
“Is that what you’re doing tonight?” I ask. “Giving a false impression?”
His wandering gaze freezes for an instant. But then he looks at me and smiles, just a teeny twitch of his lips. “There is an ulterior motive for having this party.”
“Tell me what it is so I can help.”
“I wish you could, Harp.”
“What’s the deal?”
“A few of the invited people are more important than others, that’s all.”
I step closer, our shoulders brushing… and look over at the crowd. Give them all a quick glance. “Who?”
“They’re impossible to describe.”
“Why?”
“Because they all look alike,” he says dryly.
My gaze snags on the group of women standing by the dining room table. They all look beautiful, but fairly similar, indeed. Dresses, heels, blow-dried hair.
“I see.” A frown pulls on the corners of my mouth. Maybe he’ll let me help this time? It’s definitely an easier environment here, less risky, easier to introduce myself. “Anyone in particular you’re interested in?”
“What?” Nate turns, follows my line of sight. There’s a quiet sigh when he sees where I’m looking. “Ah. You’re still determined to be my wingwoman.”
“Isn’t that what you meant?” I ask.
His eyes narrow into slits. “Would you like me to return the favor? There are plenty of eligible men here. Single. With stable jobs. Available.”
I take a long, slow sip of my drink. It’s a terrible idea. I’m not ready to date yet… but I feel like being wild, and drinking more than I should, and embracing the new me.
Making bad decisions has never felt more fun.
“It’s a deal,” I say.
“A deal,” he murmurs, voice close to my ear. “May the best wingman win.”
Nate
Harper took my breath away as she walked down the stairs.
She does it regularly but in ways I’d gotten used to, like feeling the pinpricks of pain rather than an outright punch to the gut. Tonight had been another gut punch. Just as the first time I saw her at that college bar, sitting alone but not lonely, looking at her surroundings like she was analyzing them.
She descended those stairs in a floor-length, curve-hugging dress, with her wild curls draping over her shoulders. A soft smile on her lips and a dreamy expression in her eyes as she looked out over the living room.
For the briefest of seconds, it felt as if she was coming from upstairs—our upstairs—to our party. The hostess to my host.
I take another deep sip of the Negroni I’m drinking. It’s my third, and I should slow down. This isn’t a party like the ones I once used to throw. With friends, and poker, and the ultimate goal of getting hammered and laughing our asses off. There’s a purpose to this party.
Harper finding me a date was not it.
And it sure as hell wasn’t finding one for her, either.
But here I am, drawn in by the smile in her eyes and the teasing in her voice, doing it anyway. It feels like a repeating pattern.
Across the room, I spot her talking to a brunette standing by the fireplace. They’re both smiling. Cautious, tentative, hello-we-just-met smiles.
I turn away. Roll my neck and try to find the person I was supposed to impress with this whole shindig. Plenty of people here are acquaintances, yes, and a few are friends. But there’s one person here I need to connect with. Mads Knudsen.
I spot him in the garden, having a smoke. The cigarette casually dangles from his fingers, his gaze fully locked on the young man he’s talking to. Mads’s mistress-turned-second-wife should be somewhere around here, too. It had taken a lot of work to get an invite sent to them; even more to ensure they’d accept.
I drain my Negroni and step out into my backyard. Knudsen is the major stakeholder in one of Northern Europe’s largest energy companies, and it’s a stake my brother wants to acquire. It would give us an excellent infrastructure and a corporate foothold for future Contron expansions in the region.
Problem is, the man doesn’t want to sell.
People with a lot of money fall into two camps. Those who want nothing but more money, in a never-ending cycle of greed. They’re easy to work with.
But then there are the rich people who can’t be bought with money alone. You have to finesse them with experiences, with promises, with status. With things they can’t just use their no-limit credit cards to get themselves.
It’s a slower game, that one.
Knudsen greets me when I arrive. Introduces me to the man he’s been talking to, someone who is a good ten years younger than me. This guy is good-looking in that swoopy-haired, clean-shaven, preppy-boy sort of way. I know the type well. Once upon a time, that was me.
Before I joined Contron and aged a decade.
I hate this guy on sight.
I hate that he is the sort of guy I should be introducing Harper to—if I was playing her game, if we were the kind of friends she thinks we are, the kind of friends we should be.
“This is my nephew,” Knudsen says and slaps the pop-star-wannabe on the shoulder. “Willard.”
“It’s a pleasure,” I say. “Hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I certainly am.”
“Tell me,” Knudsen continues, “didn’t you mention a few weeks back that you had a sizable art collection?”
“I might have, yes.” I give him a wide smile. “Did you come by to purchase it from me?”
“No, no, I don’t have a great eye, but this guy does.” He points at his nephew. “One of London’s greatest up-and-coming art dealers, he is.”
“Is that so?” I raise an eyebrow at the nephew. “Freelancer?”
“I’m attached to the Robert Asher chain of galleries, but I do a fair bit of freelance work, as well.” He has a narrow chin, thick eyebrows, and a mouth that looks just a bit too smug. “What kind of art do you collect?”
“Modern, mostly, and a few of the abstract expressionists.”
Willard runs a hand along his jaw. “Fascinating. I would love to take a look at your collection when time permits.”
Knudsen gives me a pointed stare. You’ll take care of my nephew, won’t you, Connovan?
A slow game.
A long one, too.
I smile at the pip-squeak. “It would be my pleasure. My art adviser is here tonight, as it happens.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “They are? What’s their name?”
“Harper Elliot.”
“I’m not familiar with that name,” he says, “but I’d be happy to speak with her.”
Mads Knudsen takes another puff of his cigarette. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it,” he says in my direction, “how well-connected people can be.”
“You mean how well-connected people like us are.”
He chuckles. I’d learned early on that Knudsen has a good sense of humor, occasionally quite dark, and I leaned into it fully. It suits me better to use cynicism, anyway.
“Right you are,” he says easily. “So, which of these pretty women here tonight is your date?”
“I’d say Kathleen, but I know she’s taken.”
He chuckles again. “Stay far away from my wife, Connovan.”
“I will, but it will pain me to do so.”
“Say that when she can hear you if you want bonus points,” he says easily. “A man like you can’t be single. I know this. Willard knows this. It’s one of the laws of the universe. Come now, tell me.”
He’s trying to connect. And I need to tell him what he wants to hear. That’s the part I’m expected to play, the way I always have.
I give him a sly smile. “I didn’t come with a date today.”
He grins. “Ah, but you might leave with one. Good, good. That is— oh?”
Both Mads and Willard turn to the two women standing beside us. One of them is Harper, and a jolt passes through me at the sight.
She’s looking at me with a smile in her eyes. “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I was just wondering if I could steal Nate for a moment?”
“Of course,” Mads says with his own sly look in my direction.
That’s when I notice the brunette standing next to Harper. I clear my throat. “As a matter-of-fact, why don’t you two join us?”
It doesn’t take long to introduce Harper to the two men as my art adviser. Willard’s eyes light up, and he corners her immediately. Leaving me nodding goodbye to a smiling Mads Knudsen and standing next to a very chatty brunette.
Fantastic.
Mads is happy. I’ve been a wingman to Harper in the loosest sense of the word. Everyone must be thrilled.
Everyone but me.
The brunette’s name is Lucy Simmons. She had mentioned to Harper wanting to meet the host of this beautiful party. Apparently, the friend who invited Ms. Simmons here didn’t know who was throwing it, and she’s thrilled to discover it’s me.
Her eyes are fringed with long, artfully curled lashes. She’s pretty. A few years ago, I would have been interested in talking to her, in finding common ground and sharing a few laughs. I wouldn’t have thought twice about asking for her number or inviting her to stay for a nightcap and whatever else might, and often did, follow.
I would have enjoyed Lucy Simmons, and she would have enjoyed me.
But something happened a few years ago that changed the game for me.
Still… this is how Harper decided to play.
There’s a dark and angry part of me, spurred by the fresh drink I’m holding, that wonders if she really cares so little. If she truly wants to see this… Me and this woman she’s picked out for me.
I glance across the backyard. Harper is sitting next to Willard, both of them talking animatedly. She’s holding a glass of champagne nodding.
She must catch me watching because she looks over.
