Hard Sell (21 Wall Street) Page 3

“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” Kennedy says as the three of us make our way over to the squat rack that’s finally freed up. “It doesn’t help that the light at the end of the tunnel is the Wolfe Gala. You’re going to have to convince a hell of a lot of people you’re in love, all while champagne and absurdly expensive dresses are involved.”

  “What do dresses have to do with anything?” I ask.

  “The Cinderella complex,” Ian chimes in as he adds weight to the rack.

  I stare at him, then Kennedy. “The what now?”

  “You know.” Kennedy waves his hand impatiently. “The whole princess-ball thing. Fancy dresses, chandeliers. Dancing.”

  “What the hell do you two watch in your downtime? How about more sports, less Disney Channel?”

  Ian shrugs and steps into the rack. “Fine. Go ahead and risk it.”

  I grimace, because the scene they just described is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.

  “Unless . . . ,” Kennedy says.

  I glance at him. “I’ll take an unless. What’ve you got?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I’ll like anything better than your Snow White scenario.”

  “Cinderella,” Ian corrects.

  “Whatever. Kennedy, talk to me.”

  Instead of answering, Kennedy looks at Ian, and I know these two guys well enough to know that whatever they’re about to launch at me, it’s been their plan all along.

  “Shit. What?” I say impatiently.

  “You need someone to play along who has zero risk of emotional entanglements,” Ian says slowly.

  I roll my finger to speed him along. “Yes, we’ve covered that. You know someone?”

  “We all know her,” Ian says, holding my gaze.

  The answer hits me like a kick to the balls.

  Sabrina Cross.

  Ian’s friend since childhood, Sabrina’s an annoying constant in our social circle.

  My friends are right. She is the last woman on earth to be at risk of falling for me. Because Sabrina Cross hates my guts.

  4

  SABRINA

  Tuesday Night, September 19

  Quiet nights at home are rare in my line of work. More often than not, I’m in four-inch heels and a little black dress at fancy fund-raisers, cocktail parties, or expensive dinners.

  In other words, nights out on the town? Part of the job. People think they’re paying me big money to solve their problems, and technically they are, but what they’re really paying for are my connections and how well I know people.

  Name a judge: I know her favorite type of French wine. Name an attorney: I know his phone number and his niece’s birthday. Name a socialite: I can give you a list of every person she’s ever dated. Name a hedge fund manager: I can tell you the name of his wife and his mistress.

  I don’t have a little black book; I’ve got an entire encyclopedia, and there’s nothing little about it.

  The point is, a night to myself is rare, and when they come up, I go all in. Yoga pants, fuzzy socks, oversize sweatshirt, messy bun, Norah Jones on the speakers, the works.

  Normally I pour myself a big old glass of red wine and settle in for a movie, and though a movie’s still on the agenda, I’m not feeling the red wine vibe tonight. It feels like a cocktail kind of evening.

  I feed my dog, Juno, and begin setting out the makings for an ice-cold martini, when someone knocks on my front door, setting Juno into a barking frenzy.

  I scrunch my nose at the interruption. Not only because I’m not expecting anyone, and I hate the unexpected, but because I live in a high-rise on the Upper East Side where the doormen look like bouncers. Nobody gets up here without being on a resident’s preapproved list. I can count the number of people on my list on one hand, and none of them is expected tonight.

  Going to the door, I check the peephole, assuming it’ll be someone who knocked on the wrong door by accident.

  I groan, because it’s so much worse than an accident.

  I purse my lips and consider my options. I could pretend I’m not here, but remember before when I said that I know people?

  Well, I know this guy better than most. He’s relentless. And he will wait me out.

  Giving in to the inevitable, I open my front door, not bothering to hold Juno back from throwing her considerable weight at Matt Cannon.

  Instead of looking annoyed by the eighty pounds of Lab / Rottweiler mix getting fur all over his thousand-dollar suit, Matt bends down and gives Juno an affectionate rubdown. “Hey, girl.”

  I lean against the doorjamb, begrudging my dog her poor taste in character. “How’d you get in here?”

  Juno rolls onto her back, tongue lolling out, belly up, and Matt obliges, scratching the dog like they’re old friends. “Doorman let me up.”

  “You’re not on the list.”

  “You sure about that?” he says with a grin. Then he looks up at me and does a double take at my appearance. “Whoa. Has it finally happened? Have you finally run out of skin-tight dresses and high heels?”

  “What did you think, I slept in a push-up bra and Louboutins?”

  His grin shifts from playful to seductive. “I know firsthand that you don’t.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying that in the few times he’s seen me in my bra—and out of it—we don’t exactly do much sleeping.

  Because of that, I’m relieved at my current appearance. The casual clothes feel like a shield of sorts—a guarantee that he won’t make his move and that I won’t be helpless to resist, as I generally am.

  Matt gives my dog one last pet and stands. His six-foot-two frame doesn’t quite tower over my five-foot-seven self, but I have to look up, and that’s annoying.

  Actually, everything about him is annoying.

  See, adversaries aren’t supposed to look like him. And make no mistake, for all our ill-advised hookups in the past, Matt is an adversary. As such, it’d only be fair for him to have scars, a paunch, or at least an asymmetrical face.

  He’s got none of the above. Simply and reluctantly put, men don’t come better-looking than Matt Cannon. He’s the epitome of a golden boy. Perfectly styled blond hair? Check. Mischievous blue eyes? Yup. Chiseled jaw? Uh-huh. Perfect body . . .

  Yeah, you get the idea.

  Also, I hate him.

  I lean against my doorjamb, still blocking his entry. “Why are you here, and why in God’s name did my doorman let you up?”

  Matt puts a hand to my waist as though it’s his right and nudges me aside so he can enter my apartment. As though that’s his right, too. Juno follows him in happily.

  “You were in Baltimore last month,” he says.

  I blink in confusion at the change of subject. “And?”

  “You asked Kate to watch Juno, except she went out to Jersey to have brunch with her parents, and the train broke down. Your dog needed to go out, so . . . I came over. Juno and I hit it off, so I took over dog-sitting duties for the weekend.”

  I stare at him, aghast. “Just like that. You were in my apartment. Watching my dog.”

  He looks down at me. “Don’t be weird about it. I’ve been in your apartment before.”

  “Yeah, for dinner parties. Under supervision. And when . . .”

  His eyebrows lift. “Yes?”

  I refuse to blush, and I refuse to answer. I don’t particularly care to think about the times my body’s desire for this man has overridden common sense, resulting in a hookup or two. Or twelve. And I definitely don’t talk about it.

  His cocky wink tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking, but for once, he doesn’t give me shit. Instead, he turns to survey my apartment.

  “I’ve never mentioned this before, but I like your place. Juno and I made ourselves at home while I watched her.”

  “Juno was home,” I point out. “You were an uninvited intruder.”

  He ignores this. “Your home suits you.”

  “I’m assuming there’s an insult in ther
e somewhere?” I ask over my shoulder, heading back into the kitchen.

  “Nope, I really do like it. It’s the only thing I like about you,” he says, following me.

  I ignore the barb, since it’s sort of what we do. Plus . . . I like my place, too. It’s on the forty-second floor, right on Park Avenue, and the view alone is worth the astronomical rent.

  I’m also pretty proud to say I’ve made a home out of what could have been a generic mausoleum. The leather sofa’s gray and warm and comfortable, with inviting red throw pillows. Instead of a coffee table, I’ve got an enormous ottoman, with a tray for cocktails and scented candles.

  There’s a wine rack in one corner of the living room, a dog bed in the other, and the rest is all windows with a glorious view of the Empire State Building, the bright lights of downtown twinkling off in the distance.

  The kitchen, too, is inviting, at least by Manhattan standards, since we New Yorkers aren’t exactly known for our cooking skills.

  Juno dashes for her beloved, albeit slightly decrepit, squeaky sheep-shaped toy and takes to her dog bed, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as Matt comes to join me in the kitchen.

  He’s wearing a suit, which isn’t all that surprising—he’s pretty much always wearing a suit. This one’s a dark gray, and the blue tie matches his eyes, though a medieval torture chamber wouldn’t get me to admit that I notice.

  Out of habit, or instinct, or maybe just poor judgment, I measure the ingredients for two martinis, one for each of us. I’ve just added the vodka and vermouth to the shaker when Matt comes around the counter.

  Wordlessly, he plucks the shaker out of my hands and takes over.

  It’s a high-handed move, and completely like him. But whereas I’d normally protest on principle, I let him do it, sensing that he needs the control more than I do tonight.

  Something’s on his mind—he wouldn’t be here otherwise—and based on what I saw in the WSJ yesterday, I’ve got a pretty good sense of what that something is.

  Matt goes to my freezer and adds ice, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be in my kitchen, making the two of us cocktails.

  He puts the lid on the shaker, but before shaking it, he sets it aside and shrugs out of his suit jacket, tossing it onto the back of one of the dining room chairs, then rolls up his sleeves.

  My mouth goes a little dry at the sight of white sleeves being rolled over tanned male forearms, but I refuse to respond or even look interested.

  Thankfully the sound of the cocktail shaker defuses the sexual tension. Or so I tell myself as I pull two cocktail glasses off my bar cart and set them in front of him.

  Matt strains the drink into both glasses. He adds three olives to mine, exactly as I like it, then grabs a lemon from the fruit bowl on my counter, adding a citrus twist to his, exactly as he likes it.

  He hands me mine, lifts his in a toast. “Cheers.”

  “To . . . your newfound notoriety?” I say, clinking my glass to his before taking a sip.

  “You saw the paper.”

  “Cannon, everyone saw that paper,” I say, taking my cocktail into the living room and dropping onto a soft leather chair.

  He follows, sitting on the edge of the couch, and reaches for a coaster before putting down his drink. I have no doubt it’s a spillover from his upper-middle-class upbringing. He’s not quite as upper crust as his friend Kennedy Dawson, whose blood is as blue as it gets. But from what I’ve been able to piece together, Matt’s childhood in the Connecticut suburbs was a far cry from my early life in Philly.

  Juno dashes over and jumps up on the couch beside him, something she usually does only with me.

  Matt rubs Juno’s head, looking at the dog instead of at me, and I decide it’s time to cut the bull. “When do we get to the point about what you’re doing here?”

  He smiles without looking at me. “Usually a woman asks that before making her visitor a drink.”

  “I took pity on you. The WSJ, remember?”

  His smile disappears. “Hard to forget.”

  “So.” I sip my drink. “Vegas.”

  He runs his hands over his face and slumps back against the couch. “It was Troy’s bachelor party.”

  “Troy?”

  “My cousin. Kind of a douchebag now, but we had some fun memories growing up.”

  “So if it was his bachelor party, why wasn’t he the one with a naked woman draped over his lap?”

  “He was,” Matt grumbles. “He just wasn’t featured in the Wall Street Journal.”

  Much as Matt drives me crazy, it’s hard not to feel a little sorry for the guy. I can’t even fathom the horror of anyone seeing me at a vulnerable moment, let alone millions of WSJ subscribers.

  “I didn’t sleep with her.”

  I blink, thrown off by the unexpected pronouncement. “I didn’t ask. And in no way is that my business.”

  He shrugs and leans forward, picking up his drink.

  I take a deep breath. I meant what I said. What Matt does in his spare time, with other women . . . totally not my business.

  We’re not dating. We don’t even like each other. We’re simply two people who, against their better judgment, sleep together, with each ill-fated naked encounter somehow driving us further apart instead of closer together.

  But still, we’re not exclusive.

  And yet . . . there’s relief that he didn’t sleep with the Vegas stripper, or whatever she was.

  I hate myself for it, but it’s there. Relief, pure and strong and absolutely not to be analyzed.

  “The bosses are pissed?” I ask.

  Matt grunts his assent, taking another sip of his martini.

  “It’ll pass,” I say. “Some other scandal will come up, and the whole thing will blow over.”

  He stands and goes to the window, taking his cocktail with him as he studies the Manhattan skyline. “They’ve given me an ultimatum.”

  “Seriously?” I ask. “It’s that bad?” I’m surprised. Even I know what an asset he is to Wolfe Investments, with that big number-crunching brain of his.

  Matt shoves his free hand in his pocket and doesn’t turn around. “Just a perfect-storm situation, I think. The fact that the story broke in a prestigious newspaper instead of Page Six. The fact that some of the morons I was with were into the hard stuff but the reporter failed to mention that I didn’t touch the cocaine. Plus, Wolfe’s still recovering from Ian’s scandal. The higher-ups are on edge.”

  “So they’re going to fire you for getting a lap dance?” I ask incredulously. “Unless you do what?”

  “They want me to settle down.”

  I snort. “Have they actually met you?”

  “Ian settled down. He was even more wild than me.”

  I stare at his back. “You’re serious. You’re going to do this?”

  “No, they’re serious,” he says, turning back to me with no trace of his usual cocky smile. “I get a girlfriend, or I get canned.”

  I ignore the little stab of something painful in my chest at the thought of Matt committed to someone for the long haul, the way Ian and Lara are.

  I take a sip of my cocktail as I think this over.

  His situation sucks, and his life needs fixing. That’s what I do. I’m actually not all that surprised he showed up, though I sort of imagined his request for help would be along the lines of getting the WSJ to issue a retraction.

  At this rate, though, even if I could achieve that, I don’t know what good it would do. This city, this life, is all about reputation. Once it’s smeared, you can’t undo the smear. You simply have to smear it with something else. Something better.

  Like a girlfriend.

  Much as I hate to admit it, the plan has merit. Nothing takes the steam out of a playboy scandal like a ball and chain.

  “You want my help.”

  He takes a sip of his drink and stays silent.

  I push him. “C’mon, Cannon, admit it. You never come here. We never do drink
s just the two of us, unless it’s after . . . you know.”

  His eyebrows go up. “Sex?”

  “Right. Which is absolutely not on the agenda.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up. “Figured that from your attire.”

  I glance down. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

  “Nothing. I just didn’t know you owned a sweatshirt, much less purple socks.”

  “Do you live in your suit?”

  “No.” Another sip of his cocktail. “Sometimes I’m naked.”

  The picture of exactly what his perfect body looks like flits through my mind, and I push it aside. “You’re changing the subject,” I say, setting my glass on the table. No coaster. “What do you want?”

  “Shit, Sabrina, you already know what I want. I want to hire you.”

  “You need a girlfriend. A fake one,” I say, making sure I understand the request.

  “Yup. For the next month or so, I need to be completely enamored with a woman. And I need her to pretend to be devoted to me.”

  “Vegas warts and all,” I murmur as I contemplate his bosses’ ultimatum.

  “You think the plan is crap?” he asks.

  I feel a jolt of pleasure—of pride—when I realize he’s really asking. That he really wants my opinion on something this important to him.

  “Actually . . . no,” I say slowly, chewing an olive. “I’ve discovered that a man can get away with just about anything so long as the same woman appears on his arm at the right society events.”

  He sighs. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me the plan was total shit so I wouldn’t have to go through with it.”

  “Not excited about having a little lady in your life?” I keep my voice light and joking, carefully hiding the relief that he’s in no hurry to settle down, even just for pretend. It helps ease the sting of what he’s about to ask me to do:

  Find him his fake girlfriend.

  Even knowing it won’t be real, the thought of finding some perfect woman to be his ally for the next month . . .

  I shove the regret aside. “Okay, so, your fake girlfriend. How long do I have to find her?”

  “Ah . . .”

  I frown at his discomfort. “You just said you need to hire me. You need me to fix this, right?”