The Schemer Page 3

  “The spot’s not yours,” he said. “I believe you called tails.”

  Her stomach did a shimmy as she lifted her hand. She didn’t have to glance at the coin. The look on the smug bastard’s face said it all. It was heads.

  Everly glanced over her shoulder at the dim gloom of the rest of the small underground parking garage. It had only six spots in the long narrow garage, each spot requiring parallel parking except the front two, one for each of the six large apartments above Black Heart Art Gallery. She’d learned from Mrs. MacIntosh that Clyde Fester in 1C had spent a fortune two years ago to buy the rights to three of the spots for his classic GTO he took out only on special occasions. That left the spot by the door next to Mrs. MacIntosh and the one in the rear of the garage. Everly had heard tales of Mrs. MacIntosh dinging the cars parked beside her from time to time, but Everly had ding insurance and a soft spot for anyone older than sixty. That’s what happened when your grandma, along with her circle of cutthroat bingo partners, practically raised you from seventh grade on. So Everly would squeeze her aging German metal baby, Helga, as close to the line away from Cecilia’s land yacht as possible and cash in on her insurance policy one week at a time. She’d also save herself from the mile-long hike from the back of the garage in her four-inch stilettos. As any woman with sense would agree, what’s a ding compared to walking a mile in high heels?

  “Aww. Too bad. Best two out of three?” Tyler asked, his smooth voice pulling her attention back to the matter at hand.

  She picked up the coin off the top of her hand and looked at both sides. It was grimy, the kind of coin that had been through a million vending machines, but the weight was good. It had a heads and a tails side. There wasn’t anything off about it that stood out. Still, she couldn’t shake the nugget of disbelief in the pit of her stomach. Of course, Tyler always jumbled her up that way. It was part of the reason why she got so snarly around him. He made her nervous—no, she self corrected, he made her excited, hopeful, aroused. Three things she couldn’t afford to be if she was going to keep her focus on making her borderline failing gallery a go and keeping her dementia-suffering nunni in the well staffed, caring senior residence instead of a state-run nursing home.

  What would Nunni say at the moment? To pick her battles. “Nah, I’m good.” She gave her building nemesis an evil smirk. “Anyway, carrying all my extra heels from my new parking spot will be good exercise.”

  The grin slid off his face. “I won. No heels inside your apartment.”

  “I never agreed to that part. Anyway, everybody’s got a vice.” She flipped the coin to him, relishing the small victory.

  He swiped it from the air and shoved it in his pocket. “Your vice couldn’t be underwater basket weaving?”

  “And miss out on my salsa practice to the beat of you pounding a broom against your ceiling? Where’s the fun in that?” Yeah, she was taunting him, but he deserved it after this stunt.

  “I expected an answer like that from a woman who believes in the healing power of art and always wears head-to-toe black probably right down to your panties that are always in a twist,” he scoffed.

  Walk away, Everly. Just walk away.

  It was great advice she was giving herself, but there was no way she was taking it. Challenges, thought-provoking art, and the smell of a bingo card marker were her kryptonite—and Tyler Jacobson, Mr. 2B, was a walking, talking, panty-melting challenge.

  She lifted her chin and looked him in the eyes, not backing down an inch. She may have lost the coin toss but she wasn’t going to lose the battle. “You’re wrong.”

  “No. I’m not,” he said, cocky as ever. “I’m never wrong.”

  “You are this time.”

  They stood so close together that she could see the varying shades of blue in his eyes and feel the electricity coming off him in waves that fried her badass circuitry and turned her hot and expectant. This was why she should have walked away—because fighting with Tyler felt a lot like foreplay. And she liked it.

  “You don’t believe in the healing power of art?” He didn’t step back. He didn’t touch her, either, but he didn’t need to.

  “No,” she said, barely over the sound of her pulse thundering in her ears. “I’m not wearing black panties.”

  She shouldn’t have said that. She shouldn’t have even put the idea into his head. But it was too late. His bright-blue eyes darkened a few shades, followed by the slow upward curl of his lips. “Soft. Girlie. Pink.”

  She leaned in close. “Nothing.” Her lips were only millimeters from his ear. “At.” A delicious shiver ran up her spine. “All.”

  Satisfied she’d taken his game board and shaken all the pieces into new positions, she took a step back, but not far enough. The raw heat in his gaze, all semblance of cockiness or confidence wiped clean to reveal nothing but honest, naked desire, was like a tractor beam to her clit. Her heartbeat galloped in her chest as her body realized exactly where it wanted to be. And for once in her life, without thinking, she took a step forward. Quick as lightning, he moved forward to meet her, his mouth crashing down on hers. It was like touching a match to an oil painting—everything caught fire. The next thing she knew, her ass was pressed against her used BMW’s hood, her hands were in Tyler’s dark hair, and she was still using her tongue to duel with him but in a totally different way. She’d thought she’d been hot before—she was wrong. This was the-face-of-the-sun hot and all she wanted was more.

  Her legs were spread as far as they could in the form-fitting stretch jersey dress, and he stood between them, the hard length of his cock rubbing against her stomach as he kissed her dumb. The temptation to wrap her legs around his hips and hook her ankles together just above his perfect ass was nearly overwhelming. It would feel so good. She wanted it. Bad. Which was exactly why she couldn’t do it. Man-size frat boys and moneymen like Tyler ate up women like her and spit them out. They promised the moon and stars but delivered only tacky glow-in-the-dark stickers you stuck to your bedroom ceiling. She knew firsthand. She’d grown up staring at the pale-yellow stars, one more cheap gift from a man who never could tear himself away from work to cross from the fancy part of Harbor City to Riverside, where beat-up, older model cars lined the streets, to see someone as unimportant as his bastard daughter.

  It didn’t take any effort to push Tyler away—well, at least once she was able to force herself to put her hands to his muscular chest and shove. He backstepped, stopping just out of arm’s reach, his chest heaving, his hair messed up by her fingers, and his bright-blue eyes dark with lust.

  “We can’t do that again,” she said between harsh breaths, sounding to her own ears as if she’d finished a marathon. Nunni had warned her one or a billion times how that way lay danger and trouble and all the bad shit in the world.

  “That kiss was…” The words faded out, and he shoved his fingers through his thick hair. “You can have the parking spot. I’ll get the building super to repaint the lines to make the space bigger so it’s not so near Mrs. MacIntosh’s car.”

  That was a bucket of ice dumped right into her nonexistent panties. Transactional. That’s how guys like Tyler saw passion. She may have fucked up fighting and foreplay in her head, but at least she didn’t mix up a bad idea with payment for services rendered.

  “Fuck you,” she said, strutting from the hood to the driver’s door and yanking it open.

  As she turned to slide behind the wheel, she caught the confusion making the corners of his eyes crinkle. Yeah. He’d probably never thought anyone would tell someone like him to fuck off. Life was always a shock to the system for the privileged. Without another word, she got into her car and guided Helga into her new parking spot in the back. By the time she’d given herself enough pep talks to walk across the parking garage to the residents’ elevator, Tyler was gone, taking his pink lounge chair, beer bottle, and cocksure attitude with him.

  Good. He was the last man she needed to be dealing with right now. Her life was enough like
a trailer park in the middle of a tornado as it was without adding a man like Tyler into the mix.

  Chapter Three

  Four very long—and often uncomfortably hard—days later and Tyler was making his way into the lion’s den. Or lioness, in this case. The Black Heart Art Gallery took up the street-level floor of the small but pricey building that had been his celebration purchase after he’d earned his first real money, the kind the folks he’d grown up with called “fuck you money” because that’s exactly what it said to everyone around him.

  The building sat right on the edge of the art district and the financial district. He’d known the rough-around-the-edges neighborhood had possibilities even when everyone told him it was a lousy investment. When the neighborhood took off a year later, though, he’d started turning away buyers offering triple what he’d paid. By his calculations, the area was only beginning to grow into what it could be and wouldn’t peak for another decade at the least. That was always the problem with people. They were so hot on immediate results, they failed to play the long game—but not him. That was exactly why he was about to face the woman who’d haunted his late-night dreams and shower-time fantasies for the past four days. He’d disregarded his long-term game plan of antagonizing but not fraternizing with his sexy and off-limits upstairs neighbor from the wrong side of Harbor City, but he couldn’t avoid her any longer.

  Luckily, his target tonight wasn’t Everly Ribinski but Italian hotel magnate Alberto Ferranti, who had finally decided to expand his empire of high-end boutique hotels into the United States. Every business consultant in Harbor City had the Italian in his or her sights in hopes of being the one to guide Ferranti in his American business dealings and taking a very healthy cut of the profits, but Tyler was going to be the one to land him. He had the numbers, the vision, and the plan to make it happen. All he needed was some one-on-one face time with the man, and he was going to get it here tonight.

  That would solidify Tyler’s position as one of the city’s key movers and shakers. After that, his days of hearing the whispers about being a pity scholarship kid from working-class Waterbury would be behind him for good. Then, he would have made it and finally become a part of the world he’d watched from the outside for so much of his life. According to Tyler’s well-placed informants, Ferranti was going to be here tonight.

  “Tyler,” a familiar voice called out.

  He turned in time to see Helene Carlyle, queen of Harbor City’s social elite and his friend Sawyer’s mom, wearing a designer navy dress, a necklace worth as much as the pricy art hanging on the gallery walls, and a name tag with the words “Art Adviser” printed beneath her name. This was a woman who instilled fear into some of the city’s most powerful, made doormen shake in their shined shoes, and had enough icy reserve for those she didn’t know or like to reverse climate change. What in the world was she doing here wearing a name tag? He hadn’t heard anything about Carlyle Enterprises being in trouble.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked, ready to reach for his wallet if necessary.

  “Well,” Helene said, her dissatisfaction obvious in the pinched look to her mouth. “The wine is horrible, but it always is at events like this.”

  “No offense,” he said, his brain trying to catch up with the visuals. “But it looks like you’re working here.”

  So what was her play here? Everyone had one—including himself. Always. Was she planning on opening her own gallery? Had Everly brought her in as a potential investor? If so, how would that impact his current plan to get some face time with Alberto? Could Helene help out if she was in a power position at the gallery? Would she want to? What if this was something else entirely? Could she be looking to buy the gallery outright?

  “I wouldn’t call it working,” she said as she eyeballed the crowd with a critical eye. “I get to educate the uninformed about their bad taste in art, correct it, and tell them what to buy—and they do.”

  The chuckle escaped before he could stop it. Here he was spinning out every possibility and its impact and Helene was just doing what she loved—telling everyone else what to do. When he’d first met her at the prep school his family never could have afforded on their own, she scared the shit out of him. “Formidable” wasn’t the right word for the woman in her late fifties who managed to make ruling the Harbor City elite social circle look like child’s play. She was as tough as dried-out beef jerky, sharp as broken glass, and—underneath it all—a devoted, if more than a little manipulative, advocate for the people she loved. It had taken him a while to figure out that last one. Most people never did.

  However, Helene Carlyle had been his first and most influential mentor in how to navigate the shark-infested waters of Harbor City’s elite. He’d be forever grateful and, no matter how many millions he earned, wouldn’t be able to pay her back for it all. Still, working as an art adviser in a small gallery—even if it was with the stated objective to boss everyone into having better taste—didn’t seem like anything he’d ever expected Helene to do.

  “How did this happen?” he asked.

  Helene gave a graceful shrug. “Hudson asked for a favor for his friend who owns the gallery during one of his shows. Of course the name tag’s horrendous, but I couldn’t change Everly’s mind on that—and I thought my boys were stubborn. So.” She paused, giving him an assessing look. “What are you doing here? I never took you for much of an art aficionado.” She held up her hand before he could speak. “Don’t tell me. It’s for work.”

  Bingo. “I’m here for Alberto Ferranti.”

  He quickly scanned the crowd, milling in small groups and staring at the primary-colored blobs splattering white canvases lining the walls as if they’d find the meaning of life or even something that looked almost like art in the paintings. There were lots of expensive black outfits on bored rich people. Lots of pretentious expressions that reminded him of someone pretending they weren’t smelling a fart. Lots of ignored waiters offering hors d’oeuvres. A handful of starving artist types stuffing their bags with the otherwise disregarded bacon-wrapped shrimp and pâté on tiny triangles of toast. There had to be nearly seventy people here, but none of them had Ferranti’s signature shock of chin-length silver hair.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Helene shake her head at him.

  “You do know,” she said, “that there’s more to life than work.”

  Maybe for some people, but not for him—not yet. He had a plan, a scheme, that was going to change everything, and he’d go from being the kid in a donated prep school jacket to the man at the head of the table. Finally. And yes, he was well aware how childish those dreams sounded to most. But what could he say? It was the first vision of success he ever imagined for himself. It was the drive that had gotten him this far, and it deserved to finally be realized. “And this from the woman who could buy most of Harbor City three times over and is still wearing a name tag because she’s at work?”

  “You care too much what others think, Tyler. Always have.”

  His breath hitched from the verbal kick to the ribs, but he recovered quickly. They were harsh words, but her gaze held kindness, if only for a flicker of a second before the mantle of haughtiness settled back into place. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought himself anyway. But it was a whole lot easier not to care what others thought of you when you came from old money. Waterbury had a stench that was hard to wash away.

  Helene waved her hand dismissively. “True power, dear, is wearing a name tag and knowing everyone will still bow before you. Besides, this is more like volunteering to improve humanity’s taste in art.”

  “Lofty goal,” he said, just as a flash of silver caught his eye. “And there he is.”

  Pivoting, Helene turned in the direction Tyler was looking. The move revealed Everly standing next to Ferranti with her arm hooked in his. The smile on her face was genuine, her shoulders relaxed, her step light. Meanwhile Ferranti continued to talk. They were too far away to be heard over the chatting galler
y show attendees, but there was no missing the excited gestures Ferranti was making with his free hand. The two were obviously close, but just how close was the question—and the possible monkey wrench—to be determined.

  “They know each other.” Saying it out loud didn’t ice the burning poker jabbing him in his gut.

  “Indeed,” Helene said. “Everly told me that they met in Italy some years ago when she was searching for art for a client. She made an offer on one of the paintings in his hotel. There was some kind of exuberant bargaining. She came back home with the painting and a new friend.”

  “Friend?” he asked, images of all the naked things he’d like to do with Everly if she was his friend flashing in his mind’s eye. “Is that what they were calling it?”

  “Not that kind.” Helene pinched his arm, hard enough to make him start. “From what I understand, she’s more like a very close family friend, sort of like how I think of you.”

  Well, that explained the Mom’s-not-putting-up-with-that-kind-of-talk reaction. He caught a calculating gleam in her eye. He knew that look and didn’t need to run through a long list of scenarios to know what it meant. Helene Carlyle was known to play matchmaker, as she had with her two sons recently. He needed to nip this line of thought in the bud. “Don’t even think it. I’m not the least bit interested in Ms. Ribinski for myself. I am, however, very interested in Mr. Ferranti’s business,” he said.

  She smiled, no doubt attempting for it to be less devious and failing miserably. “Whatever do you mean? I would never presume anything where you are concerned, Tyler. Honestly, I’m not convinced you’ve changed your idiotic ways enough to deserve someone of Ms. Ribinski’s caliber.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, unable to peel his attention off Everly and Ferranti as he went through the million and one possibilities of what this little plot twist could mean for his plans and how he could spin it to work in his favor. He’d not expected Everly to actually be close friends with Ferranti.