Neck & Neck by Elizabeth Bevarly Page B

billionaire himself, in person, she was confident she could do just that. But appealing to the billionaire himself, in person, meant getting past his bevy of bodyguards first. And that meant getting past Finn Guthrie. Finn Guthrie, whose arms were roped with sinew, and whose chest was as broad as the Grand Canyon, and whose shoulders were roughly the size of Antarctica.
    Oh, yeah, she thought sarcastically. No problem. Considering the way he’d succumbed to her today, she’d have him eating out of her hand in no time.
    Okay, Natalie. Time to implement plan B.
    There. The perfect solution to her problem. There was always a plan B to implement. Always. All she had to do now was, you know, remember what plan B was.

· Four ·
    FINN WAS IN THE HOTEL SUITE BATHROOM TRYING TO get melted cheese off his Talk Derby to Me T-shirt—a Hot Brown, he’d realized in hindsight, wasn’t the best thing to eat from a carryout box—when he heard the knock at his door. For one fleeting moment, he thought—even hoped—it was Natalie Beckett coming to bother him again. Then he reminded himself that there was no way she could learn what room he—or anyone else in Russell’s party—could be in. Not if he was doing his job right.
    It was only after he exited the bathroom and heard a second knock that he realized it was coming not from the door leading to the hallway but the door that connected his suite to the one Russell and Max were sharing. Nevertheless, he yanked a pinstriped oxford shirt out of the closet and shrugged it on before tugging the door open. It wasn’t locked—Russell could have just come right in—but each man respected the other’s privacy enough not to intrude without knocking first. It was a courtesy even Max remembered to uphold.
    But it was Russell on the other side of the door this time, looking like a man who was headed out for the evening. His pale blond hair was perfectly groomed, he’d just shaven, and he was dressed in khaki trousers, a white dress shirt, and a navy blue sport coat with brass buttons.
    “What?” Finn said by way of a greeting. “Did you forget where you parked your yacht?”
    Russell grinned. “No, it’s anchored in Cinnamon Bay at the moment. I loaned it to Frøydis and some of her friends.”
    Frøydis was a supermodel whose name in Norwegian translated to “Goddess.” Considering the fact that she was six two with ice blue eyes and white blond hair, the name should have been perfect for her. And it would be, were she not, in fact, from Hoboken and actually named Frances.
    “You sure that’s wise?” Finn asked. “The last time you loaned something to Frøydis and her friends, she sold it and they divvied up the cash between them.”
    Russell shrugged. “It was just a Bugatti.”
    Right. “You sure the yacht will still be there when you need it back?” Finn asked.
    Russell shrugged again but said nothing.
    Of course, Finn thought. It was just a Neorion. He shook his head slowly. “You’re not even in love with her, Russell.”
    “No, but she’s a hell of a lot of fun.”
    “No, she isn’t. She sleeps twelve hours a day, then lets other people dress her and brush her hair and put on her makeup, then makes her living walking, then eats a meal that consists of two cabbage leaves, three peas, and a carrot sliver.”
    Again, Russell’s only response was a shrug.
    “Look, I know you’re never going to find another woman like Marti,” Finn said. “But the least you could do is date women who can hold a halfway coherent conversation with you.”
    This time Russell shook his head. “You’re just jealous because you’ve never dated a woman whose name has an o with a slash through it.”
    “Neither have you,” Finn pointed out.
    Once again, Russell went back to his shrugging.
    So Finn asked, “Where are you going tonight?” Russell had given him the night off, but Finn still wanted to know the other man’s agenda.
    “Dinner first, then a club or two.”
    Or ten, Finn