The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs (4 page)

Then she was guilted into going with Helena to the gallery opening—an event, apparently, that Carl had refused to attend.

"He claims he has to work late, but he's probably chatting with his online hussy and can't tear himself away." Helena mopped up her tears with a paper napkin. "I've tried everything I can think of to keep his interest in the bedroom. I don't know what else he wants, Bry."

When Helena was in one of her dark moods there was little to do except wait for the storm cloud to pass, but she'd always been there for Bry—more of an older sister than a cousin—so it felt as if she ought to prove her allegiance by trotting along to the gallery. Couldn't let Helena walk into her own party alone.

Also, agreeing to go out that evening had prevented any further discussion about the bedroom. The last thing Bry wanted to hear was a detailed account of Helena's attempts to seduce her husband of sixteen years.

Wow. Their wedding was sixteen years ago? She'd known Numbnuts for more than half her life, she realized.

"Why was
he
sitting down with you when I came in?" Helena had demanded. "You know what he is. I hope you didn't encourage it."

"I certainly didn't," she'd replied.

"Good, because he's absolutely the wrong man for you, Bry. I wouldn't trust a hair on his head with any friend of mine."

Just as she replayed their conversation in her head, there he was. In the gallery. Dark suit. Standing out as usual.

"Are you kidding me?" she groaned under her breath. Three times in one day, after two months in the same city with no sighting?

He was probably there buying some overpriced, ugly art. Ben Petruska had no more understanding of modern art than she did, but he'd buy it if it was expensive— and especially if someone else wanted it. She wondered if he meant to be buried with all his treasures, like a Pharaoh in ancient Egypt. Obviously he had more money than he knew what to do with.

Rostrop and Philips are giving you all the shitty jobs. And a woman of your talent is wasted there. You know they'll hold you back
.

Oh, and he wouldn't? She almost laughed out loud. Ben Petruska was old fashioned when it came to women. He liked them glamorous, well-maintained, obedient and unquestioning. In fact she'd be shocked if he had any women on his staff, apart from those he had to hire for affirmative action. Maybe that's why he wanted her—to fill a quota. Today, briefly, she'd felt as if he might be attracted to her, but it seemed too strange to consider for long so she let it go. Besides, he probably didn't even realize how it felt for her to be on the receiving end of his full attention for once. He was a natural born flirt on auto-pilot. Helena called him a womanizer.

Fortunately her cousin hadn't seen him in the gallery. She was preoccupied with pseudo acquaintances and her martini. So Bry pretended she hadn't seen Ben either. It might be for the best if they just ignored one another. Even on a good day, Helena did not like Ben and—uh oh—Carl was with him.

This did not bode well for a peaceful evening. 

* * * *

He stood with his cocktail in one hand and a bacon-wrapped scallop in the other, trying to pay attention to a woman with a voice as sharp as her cheekbones and conversation only slightly less unappealing than her stretched, embalmed expression. He had no idea where Carl went and was already thinking about making a sly exit. But he couldn't. His driver had brought them both to the gallery. If he left now, Carl would be stranded without a ride. Unless, of course, he managed to patch things up with Helena.

Glancing over the walking cadaver's head, he suddenly spied the back view of a curvaceous woman in a nude color dress with a shimmer of sparkle. He'd know that ass anywhere and the glossy swing of her hair when she laughed. Who was that pinhead with her? Some guy with artfully shaped stubble and an earring.

"Excuse me." He left the gaunt woman still talking and strode up to Bryony, stopping directly behind her. "Who let you in?"

She jumped about a foot in the air and spilled her drink. Again. Second time in one day he had that effect on her. He'd like to think he made her nervous, but she did have a naturally clumsy streak so it was hard to tell.

Pinhead looked annoyed at the interruption, but said nothing and didn't meet his eye. Just surveyed Ben's suit with thinly veiled irritation.

"Oops! I owe you a drink, Ms. Mulligan." Ben made a fuss over her and her dress, taking the empty glass out of her hand, looking at the salt around the rim. "Margarita is it?"

"Petruska, I don't need you to buy me a drink."

"But I will anyway." One hand on her waist, he drew her away toward the bar. He glanced over at Pinhead and smiled wide, showing teeth. "I hope you don't mind, but Miss Mulligan and I have some business to discuss."

"How dare you?" she exclaimed hotly. "No we don't."

"About a job, Ms. Mulligan. Remember?"

She twisted around as he dragged her off. "I'll be back in a minute," she promised Pinhead.

Ben gave the other man a look that assured him otherwise. He didn't have to say anything else, but steered her through the crowd by the bar, spreading his fingers over the soft layer of sequins that made her gown twinkle. God, she felt good. No way was she going back to Pinhead.

"You've got some nerve, Numbnuts," she whispered angrily.

"Yes, I do. I have a lot of nerves and you get on all of them."

"I'm not one of your bimbos to be pushed around."

"Bimbos?"

"Why did you bring Carl here anyway? Helena is in a foul mood and this isn't the place for a fight. She's working."

"I didn't bring him," he explained placidly. "He brought me." Ben fully expected her to yell at him about touching her, but she didn't mention his hand on her waist, so he left it there. "Where is Helena?"

"Schmoozing. Why?"

"Is she having an affair?"

"Helena?" Her eyes widened. "No way!"

He set her empty glass on the bar. "You sure? Carl is convinced—"

"She thinks
he's
having an affair."

Ben laughed and shook his head. "Much ado about nothing, then."

"You know how they are."

"True." On the way to the gallery he'd advised his cousin to take control of the situation. Helena, he suspected, wanted her husband to toughen up a little. Carl could be a real wimp at times, always worrying too much about what he shouldn't say or do, always analyzing every move. Never one to just go with the flow. As a marriage therapist Carl was probably the worst sort of husband. Kind of like teachers were said to make the worst parents. "I've given Carl a little advice."

"You have?" Her voice dripped with scorn. "Know a lot about marriages do you? Perennial bachelor that you are?"

"I know about women," he responded coolly. "And at least as much about relationships as you do, perennial spinster."

Her lips parted. An extra dash of color darkened her cheeks and it wasn't rouge.

"What's up?" he demanded. "Spinster is the female equivalent of bachelor."

She had no answer to that. Naturally she always thought she could call him whatever she wanted. When he retaliated she sulked.

"Look how easily we just sorted out their problem," he marveled out loud. "One straightforward question and answer. Seems to be beyond Helena and Carl. You'd think, if we can manage simple communication, anyone could."

She answered crisply, "It's easy for people on the outside of a situation."

"Well," he looked at her luscious lips, "enough about our cousins. Have you thought about my job proposition?"

Tipping her head back, she studied his face. the reflection from her long earrings shining down the side of her neck, just where he suddenly thought about kissing her. "Write something up," she said. "I told you."

"Ok. I will. Nice lipstick, by the way."

She seemed puzzled. "Thanks." Then she laughed. "I guess."

"What's so funny?" He tightened his hold on her as the crowd swelled. When her body moved against his, he was shocked by an immediate response in his pants. That hadn't happened to him quite so swiftly in a woman's presence since he was in college. These days there were often too many available women around, looking to catch his eye. It was a case of too much of one thing in his diet and he was bored, lost his appetite. Until now. 

Bryony waved to the bartender. "It's just that I've never had a compliment from you before." She shot him a wry look. "I feel like I should have it framed."

Was it true? Had he seriously never complimented her before? He was sure he had. She just didn't notice. Or didn't want to.

The bartender ignored them. Bryony's polite gestures were lost in the surging mob of jaded city folk looking for alcohol to get them through the evening. He watched her for a moment, partially—he had to admit—because from his vantage point, almost a foot above her, the v-neck of her dress went from modest to plunging, revealing more of those tender, gently blushing curves than she probably realized. Finally he decided to help her out.

Ben let out a loud whistle and waved a fifty dollar bill in his free hand. That got the barman's attention quick enough.

Bryony cringed, leaning her elbow on the bar, her hand to her eyes. "Trust you," she muttered. Every guest at the bar was now watching them and she, apparently, didn't like to be the center of attention. "All that money and still no class."

"That's why I need you to work for me." He grinned. "You can bring the classy." Personally he couldn't see what was wrong with his methods. As long as they worked and he got what he wanted, right?

* * * *

When the crash came she was too busy looking at Ben; too tangled up in the leafy green whorls of his wicked gaze and the feel of his hand, warm and heavy on her waist —a shockingly possessive touch she could neither ignore, nor bring herself to push away. They were too close, crammed together at the bar, and she felt his blatant gaze stroking her cleavage. The man was bold, shamelessly surveying her tits as if he'd purchased them for her. But hers were real, not the bolt-on, beanbag variety. As she'd stated, she wasn't one of his many bimbos and he needn't treat her like one.

So this was what it felt like to have Ben Petruska's arm around her. She tried to understand the various sensations rippling through her body, to put them in order, label them neatly, find a possible explanation for why she allowed this to happen.

He'd just licked his lips. His midnight pupils expanded until she thought she could see her face reflected there. The darkness pulled her in and she found it too hard to resist.

And then the crisp splintering of glass on marble tile brought them both out of their trance.

In the middle of the gallery, Helena and Carl had decided to resume an argument that must have begun some nights ago. The stem of Helena's martini glass was on the floor between them and she was yelling at her husband to take his hand off her arm. Other guests observed the entertainment with varied degrees of amusement. Some possibly thought it was part of a performance art installation

Gotta hand it to Helena. She knew how to put on a show.

"I can't discuss this with you now," she exclaimed, tossing her gilded head back, perfectly toned arms hanging at her sides with his hand clasped around one of them.

His response to her was muted, not much above a whisper, certainly not loud enough for the onlookers to hear clearly.

Helena blinked and looked at her husband's hand on her arm. "I can't leave. This is
my
party."

While Bryony was embarrassed for them both, her cousin appeared caught up in the drama, relishing the spotlight. On the other hand, as if he'd been taking lessons, Carl seemed to be trying out a dominant role that sat awkwardly on his shoulders. "Then we'll discuss it alone later, Helena. At home," he exclaimed with a grand flourish.

"Let go of me," she muttered, as if only just aware of people watching.

He leaned over to give his wife a peck on the check and she turned her head stiffly.

"Don't." Helena moaned, pouting. "Not here." Then she relented enough to lower her lashes and sigh, "Later."

Bryony felt as if she was watching a high-school play or an episode of
The Real Housewives
. Someone ought to throw a table.

"Looks like the lovebirds are about to make a truce," said Ben as the party resumed.

"I wouldn't bank on it. Helena can hold a grudge a pretty long time."

"Isn't that true of all women?"

She glared up at him.

"C'mon," he added, dark eyes shining mischievously down at her. "Women lack the simple logic that tells a man when to let it go. Women get fixated on an idea and they bludgeon it to death, long after the point has been lost and even when they know they're wrong."

"I see." With two fingers she plucked his hand from her waist. "And all women do that, do they?"

"Most." He shrugged.

She cursed herself. For those few moments she'd forgotten how damned irritating he was. "And all men are too stupid and self-absorbed to bother looking at the problem from the
illogical
woman's point of view. Oh, no! Their way is the only way. No one else can ever be right and rather than concede to the fact that they are, actually, very often in the wrong, men will drop the argument and forget it. Better that than let the little woman win."