“I work on Saturdays, Sly.”
“I know, but sometimes you make special arrangements if you have to.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, gazing up at the suspension cables, and didn’t say anything for a minute.
“Other than joining me at the auction,” he continued, “which is only a few hours, you’ll be free to do whatever you want. Bill everything to the room.”
“Room, singular?”
“I’ll sleep in the bathtub.”
She shook her head. “I’d be willing to do it—”
“Excellent! I’ll make sure—”
“If it weren’t for the Teresa thing. She’s never going to buy it that I’m your girlfriend. Nobody will. You might as well go by yourself or find a new female sacrifice who’s willing to sleep with you right away.”
“People will believe it if you wear something other than men’s pajamas.”
“I’m not doing a Pretty Woman makeover just for a weekend with a bunch of rich Silicon Valley geeks.”
“I’m not asking you to. Wear whatever you want other than pajamas.”
“Nobody will believe it.”
“You’re mental. They will.”
“I bet you they won’t,” she said.
“I bet you they will.”
“How much?”
“What?”
“If I’m right,” she said, “and nobody thinks I’m your girlfriend, what do I get?”
“That’s not fair. You’ll have too much incentive to wear old-man boxer shorts and scratch yourself inappropriately.”
Her eyes glowed with dangerous enthusiasm, the way they did when she beat him at poker. “We’ll have ground rules. I hold up my end, you hold up yours. If people don’t believe I’m your hot babe, which they won’t, then I get the jackpot. Which will be what, I wonder?”
“Can’t be cash. You’re impoverished. I’m loaded.”
“I’m not impoverished. You have a distorted view of reality. And besides, I’m going to win.” She slapped him on the back. “Let’s say a thousand.”
“That’s nothing to me and a fortune to you.”
“Please. It won’t kill me.”
He knew she couldn’t have much more than that in her checking account. “I can’t do money. I’d try to lose. It has to be something else.” He hadn’t intended on making a game out of this, but if it got her to go to the auction, he would play along. “If I lose, I give you a thousand. If you lose, you play the ukulele at my wedding, which will probably never happen, so all the more reason for you to go for it.”
She regarded a gull swooping beneath them under the bridge, then turned to him. “Teresa will never ever believe I’m your girlfriend. I’m warning you right now.”
Watching Cleo lose this bet was going to be a pleasure. It was past time she ventured outside her comfort zone. “We have a deal?”
She held out her hand. “Deal.” Then she added with a grin that lit up her eyes, “Let’s hope Teresa likes ukulele music.”
5
The Friday evening of their journey south to Carmel was cold and misty, threatening rain. October on the coast usually alternated between hot, summery days and the first taste of rain since April. This weekend was forecast to have a little of both.
Cleo glanced at Sly behind the wheel. “You didn’t say anything about my outfit.”
“I didn’t want to encourage you.”
Smiling, she turned her head to look out at the rocky cliffs tumbling down to the inky waters of the Pacific. Her jeans and sweatshirt were the same she’d worn on their hike over the bridge. “You can’t say this isn’t what I normally wear, since I was wearing it when you invited me.”
He didn’t say anything.
“If you’re hoping I packed cream silk pantsuits and designer evening gowns,” she continued, “you’re going to be disappointed.”
“You never disappoint me, Cleo.”
She bit her lip to stifle a laugh. Only two hours into their bet and she was already having fun. “This is going to be a blast.”
“I’m glad. I want you to enjoy yourself. You’re doing me a favor.”
His sincerity almost made her feel guilty about how easily she was going to win. “Have you talked to Mark lately? Maybe he wouldn’t want you to be reaching out to this woman for him and his new company.”
“He was psyched, actually,” Sly said. “He’s a recluse. Hates to network. If I can do this for him, my debt to him will be paid, at least enough for me to sleep at night.”
“What’s her name?”
“Poppy Lee.”
Cleo whistled. “I’ve heard of her.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty high profile.”
“Why would someone like that want to work on Mark’s little project?”
“Because Mark is a genius who makes millions by accident,” he said.
“Millions, sure. But not billions.”
“I like how you say that so casually, as if making millions is no biggie.”
“Doesn’t seem to impress these people anymore,” she said.
“It does. Especially now. It’s crazy time again, money pouring in from Wall Street, Main Street, all over the world, companies with six people on staff getting bought for a billion overnight.”
She strummed the ukulele in her lap. She’d been playing for the past hour, the soft high notes tinkling into the leather interior to his murmurs of appreciation. Did she really want to make his life difficult? They were friends. He wasn’t asking a lot. “Sly, if you want to drop the bet, it’s fine with me. I’ll dress up and do my best.”
“Dress however you like. Just be yourself. You’re the one who thinks that won’t be enough.”
Both flattered and annoyed, she said, “You don’t realize how different you and I appear to most people.”
“This isn’t Hollywood. These are Silicon Valley people. They won’t notice your clothes or mine. If you don’t outright argue with me when I tell people you’re my girlfriend, they’ll believe me. Even Teresa.”
“So basically, the bet is on. That’s what you’re saying?”
“Looks like.”
♢ ♡ ♤
The hotel perched on the highlands above the coast, its sloped entrance enclosed by the tall, horizontal branches of Monterey cypress trees. Cleo carried her ukulele and backpack herself, amused at how naturally Sly accepted the assistance of the valet and bellhops and desk staff as they checked in.
The resort was made up of multiple short wood buildings connected by exterior walkways, all surrounded by more cypress and pine, giving it the feel of a vast, luxurious tree house on the edge of a cliff. Sly strode down a set of stairs and up another as if he knew exactly where they were going, which he probably did.
“Here we are,” he said, opening the door of a building at the far north end of the resort. The rocks dropped directly below the planks under their feet, sloping gradually to the coast. The wind had picked up, and the surf roared. “Feels like rain.”
She followed him inside, wiping mist off her cheeks. “Will that interfere with the auction? People might not come if they can’t golf?”
“They’ll come. These people don’t usually golf.”
“Unless it’s a video game,” she said.
“Even then. No time. Most are workaholics.”
“Like you.”
“No,” he said. “I’m much worse.”
The bellhop arrived and brought in the bags, asked if he could do anything, then cheerfully accepted Sly’s folded bill and departed. With a start, Cleo noticed the champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries waiting for them on a tray on the bed.
The only bed in a room bigger than her apartment.
A fireplace crackled from the corner. The bathroom held a walk-in tub and a shower stall with several heads, so that everyone inside—and there was room for quite an orgy in there—had a constant stream of hot water.
“Hope that bathtub’s comfortable,” she said, picking up
the strawberry by its GMO stem and dangling it over his mouth.
He bit off the berry and smiled at her, cheeks bulging.
“Shall I pop open the bubbly?” she asked.
He held up a finger as he swallowed, then said, “Wine reception in an hour.”
“That should be fun,” she said. “For you.”
“You’ll be joining me, I hope.”
“You said I only had to go to the auction.”
“This doesn’t really count. It’s free food and drink. Aren’t you hungry?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What else is there going on this weekend you need me to attend?”
“Don’t you want to win your bet? A few hours at a busy auction aren’t going to give you much opportunity.”
“You’re dastardly.”
He grinned. “I like the sound of that. It goes really well with ‘tech mogul.’ I bet it would be great for business.”
“You’re hopeless. Fine, I’ll go. But I want to walk around first. I saw hiking paths.”
“There are many. Go past the pool. There’s a vineyard, but otherwise they’ve left it fairly wild.”
“Except for the miles of golf courses.”
“Except for that.” He flung his garment bag on the bed, rattling the champagne flutes on the tray. “Go take your hike, hug your tree. I’m going to get pretty.”
She pinched his chin. “Already did.” Grabbing her parka, she walked to the door. “I’ll meet you there. Where is it?”
“The Cypress Room. Six thirty. But…”
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you…” He pressed his fingers into his forehead. “Never mind.”
Smiling, she closed the door, knowing he’d almost asked her if she was going to change what she was wearing.
In spite of all his business smarts, he really didn’t have a clue about some things. They were great friends, but nobody would have paired them together, not even them. Only chance—and a passing interest in piano lessons—had done that. The band geek didn’t go to prom with the Most Likely To Succeed. In fact, she’d refused to go at all, hanging out at the twenty-four-hour diner with her similarly geeky friends, sharing a plate of garlic fries with extra garlic and arguing about superheroes.
During her marriage, she’d made an effort to “grow up,” as Dylan had called it, wearing more fashionable women’s clothing and giving up the flip-flops. She’d followed his advice—choosing pink instead of green, tight instead of comfortable, dressy instead of casual—and look where it had gotten her. Divorced at twenty-five. When he hadn’t been able to transform her into what he’d wanted, he’d found an off-the-shelf model that was ready to go.
She looked off to the west and inhaled the cold salt air, trying to banish the image of her ex-husband with her best friend—now her ex-best-friend—together. Not that she’d ever admit it to Sly, but she hadn’t slept with anyone since her marriage. If Dylan had chosen a stranger, maybe it would’ve been easier to move on and get serious about somebody else. But he hadn’t chosen a stranger. The two people she loved and trusted most, other than her parents, had ripped her heart out of her chest and diced it into pieces.
But she was over it now. She was. Four years was more than enough time to stop punching the empty pillow next to her in bed while she imagined a certain handsome, self-satisfied face.
Cleo unclenched her hands and bounded down the steps to the garden below, whistling a new melody she’d been working on for over a week.
It had been at least a year since she’d punched the pillow imagining Dylan’s face, and she’d only lost her temper then because a mutual acquaintance had accidentally copied her on the email loop about his first anniversary party with Ashley—in Tahiti. When he’d been with Cleo, he’d refused to leave the county for their honeymoon, let alone the hemisphere. But with Ashley, the lovely, perfect Ashley…
She whistled louder to cleanse away the unwelcome thoughts. Some lessons were painful to learn, but worth the hurt in the long term. The world would have to accept her as she was. And if that meant Sly had to hand over a few bucks, all the better.
6
Sly finished his second plate of food from the gourmet buffet, eyeing the corridor to the vineyard hike with growing impatience. He set down his plate and got another glass of wine at the bar. About two dozen people had come to the reception. A few familiar faces, most unfamiliar. He’d had a little success in his career, but it was a big industry and he was a relative nobody.
Teresa liked to arrive a little late so she could make an entrance.
Making a face, he sipped his wine. She didn’t love him; that wasn’t why she chased him now. Five years ago, she’d been the one to break it off after six months together. Her next boyfriends had all been high-profile, newly minted millionaires. When WellyNelly survived the recession and started attracting big corporate interest and then looked like it would make him a fortune, she called him up, sweet as an In-N-Out Burger chocolate milkshake.
He had no interest in seeing her now. Even if he had sold WellyNelly to big pharma and cashed in eight figures, which he hadn’t. Maybe it was the write-up in Businessweek, when he’d gone into business with Mark, that had renewed her interest.
Speak of the devil. There she was now, gliding into the room. Stepping behind a potted palm, he took another mouthful of wine and watched her accept a glass from the host and then begin to work the crowd. Long dark hair, smooth as glass, framed her delicate face. Petite, with elfin features that made her seem harmless, Teresa wore a clingy, shimmery gold dress that showed off her slim shape. Her shoes, as usual, increased her height by at least three inches.
She didn’t look dangerous. He glanced at the beach entrance again, wishing he hadn’t let Cleo out of his sight. This was the moment he’d need her most, before the auction was underway as a distraction.
“Hi, honey,” Cleo said loudly behind him, a mischievous grin on her face. She lifted a beer bottle to her lips, then leaned closer to him, lowering her voice. “How was that? I called you honey.”
He’d never been so glad to see her in his life, even if she was wearing a ski parka over a bright orange Giant’s T-shirt and mud-caked Chaco sandals. Curving an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her against him and kissed her hair. Something scratchy brushed his lips. “Fantastic, darling.”
Uneasiness flickered in her eyes. Her body went tense under his arm. “Don’t overdo it.”
“You’re the one with plants in your hair,” he whispered. “Lichen, I think.”
A dimple flashed in her left cheek. “Pull it out for me? That would be very romantic.”
“My pleasure.” Gazing deeply into her eyes, he stroked her cheek and caressed the crispy green strands out of her hair as if touching her hair was the greatest privilege of his life.
“Oh, you’re good,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
“You have no idea.”
“She’s right behind you.”
He brushed his lips across her temple to her ear. “I know.” Beneath the plant matter and the beer, he smelled the sweetness of her hair. And he couldn’t help but feel her soft curves pressing against his pelvis. In response, his body began pumping blood a little harder, a little faster, to key locations.
Not again. He released her and lifted the wineglass to his lips, looking away, concentrating on cooling down.
Teresa was flirting with a guy he didn’t know, those big green eyes of hers pinning the helpless geek where he stood.
Sly reminded himself that he didn’t want to be that guy again. The breakup had thrown him for a long time. He’d convinced himself he’d been in love with her, and maybe he had.
Cleo jabbed him in the ribs with her index finger, as if pressing the button on a candy machine. “You promised me food.”
Plastering a seductive smile on his face to cover the pain, he looked down at her. “Yes, sweetums. Let’s go find it together.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Are you going to feel me up
while we eat?”
“Only if you stab me again.”
With a throaty chortle, she took his arm and tugged him toward the buffet table. He tried to walk with her the way he would walk with a girlfriend, but she made it impossible. Giving up on being the manly, dominant one, he let her drag him along.
At the table, he drained his glass and held it out to a passing waiter for a refill. Might as well enjoy himself.
Which is what Cleo was obviously doing as she filled her plate with beet salad, cheese cubes, crab cakes, chicken satays, canapés, and two chocolate chip cookies. Based on the sideways looks she kept giving him, she was trying to get a rise out of him. Did she really think the women he usually dated didn’t eat? Or that he’d be offended if they did?
Of course, eating a beet with her fingers was just asking for it. As was dropping it down the V-neck her orange T-shirt.
In growing alarm, he watched her stick her hand between her breasts, extract the beet between two red-stained fingers, and bring it to her parted lips.
He slung an arm around her shoulders and confiscated her plate. “I warned you,” he whispered in her ear, sliding his hand down her back to the curve of her waist, hauling her against his side. “Honey.”
The wide-eyed innocent looked up at him, then pushed the fallen beet past his lips into his mouth.
He had no choice but to swallow it.
“It’s like a wedding,” she said brightly. “We can feed each other.”
“I’m going to feed you to the sharks in Monterey Bay if you keep this up.”
He was afraid if she kept laughing so hard, beet juice was going to shoot out of her nose. But after a moment she nodded, took a deep breath, and looked down at the plate in his hands. “Fine, I’ll stop. Can I have my food back? I really am hungry.”
“Sylvester?”
This Changes Everything (Oakland Hills Book 4) Page 4
