Neck & Neck by Elizabeth Bevarly Page B

mulling plan B, thinking surely some thing would come to her, when who should fold himself into the seat opposite her but Dean Waterman. His appearance didn’t come as a complete surprise, however. She’d had a moment’s warning before she saw him, thanks to the fact that Dean was the only man she knew who would pay five hundred dollars a bottle for cologne he ordered from a tony fragrance shop in Paris. No one, but no one, smelled as cloying and obsequious as Dean.
    “Hello, Dean,” she greeted him dispassionately, speaking into her martini rather than to him, suddenly wishing she’d ordered a shooter instead, so she could toss it back in one gulp and then order another. Double. “Fancy meeting you here,” she added. To her martini.
    She was being sarcastic, of course. Dean worked on the same block as the Brown and ate here with some regularity. And since his condo on one of the uppermost floors of Waterfront Park Place—which, Natalie had to admit, had spectacular views of the Ohio and downtown—was only minutes away, he ate here, or at another expensive downtown restaurant, even on the weekends. He saw it as a testament to both his wealth and his health that he could spend so much on a meal so often and eat so sumptuously without hurting his wallet or his well-being. Natalie saw it as a testament to how badly she wanted to score Russell Mulholland for Clementine’s party, if she would spend so much time at the Brown and risk running into Dean.
    Apples and oranges.
    “I’m not surprised at all,” he told her, his blue eyes twinkling. Honestly. Twinkling. How did someone make that happen without special contact lenses or something? And his black hair shone with bits of golden highlights under the amber lighting that made it look as if he’d been gilded. The effect was only enhanced by the amber shirt and tie he wore with his chocolate-colored suit. What a waste, that such good looks should encase such a creepy guy. “What does surprise me,” he continued, “is that you feel it’s necessary to resort to ruses like accidentally running into me at my favorite place to eat, dressed like that, in order to attract my attention, when you know I’m yours for the taking.”
    Natalie would rather take cyanide than take Dean, but that was neither here nor there. And the reason she’d dressed “like that” was because she was still stalking—ah, she meant scoping out—the Brown for . . . Russell Mulholland. The sleeveless emerald dress was by far the most flattering garment she owned, enhancing what few curves she had and making her normally boring hazel eyes look greener and larger. Just because it was more low-cut and had a higher hemline than what she usually wore for stalking—ah, she meant scoping out the Brown—didn’t mean anything. Certainly it didn’t mean she’d been trying to attract Dean.
    Ew.
    In response to his remark, however, she only smiled weakly and said, “Gosh, am I that transparent?” Because she’d learned long ago that the more she tried to convince Dean she was in no way interested in him, the more he took it as a sign that she was playing hard to get, and the more he stepped up his pursuit of her.
    Again, she thought, Ew .
    “Why don’t you just stop playing games and marry me?” he asked. “Stop pretending at this career thing that you know as well as I do you’re completely unsuited for, and spend your days doing the things women are supposed to do.”
    Since it was looking like there was little chance she would be getting rid of Dean anytime soon, Natalie decided to turn the encounter into a drinking game. Every time Dean said something stupid, she would have to take a drink. So, in response to his question, she enjoyed a healthy swallow of her martini and replied, “And what, pray tell, would be the things women are supposed to do, Dean?”
    He smiled in a way that said she should already know the answer to that. And, of course, she did. Pretty much. But the workday for