“So I’m wearing the pearl-clutching version of a club-goers outfit?” I ask wryly.
“Given that your legs are hot enough to warrant a visit from the FDNY Ladder 21, I don’t think ‘pearl clutcher’ is apropos.” He drops his hand from my back and I feel it brush my ass as he reaches down to stroke my thigh, but his movements are interrupted when Richard steps into our sight line. Ian’s fingers fall away.
Rich has the look of an Ivy League banker. His hair is expertly cut and lies in a Dead Poet’s Society swoop to the left. I can easily superimpose the regimented striped tie and blue blazer with gold emblem on the pocket. Tonight he’s attired in a well-cut suit, although the shoulders look almost too big for him and I notice that the fabric is shiny, as if it has endured one too many trips to the dry cleaners.
“Ian Kerr, you old dog. You keep ducking my dad’s phone calls. It’s like you don’t want to donate.”
It’s hard to tell if Richard is serious or kidding. Neither Kaga nor Ian gave me any clue as to whether Rich supports his father or is rebelling somehow, but at his age, the north side of forties or older, he should be too old for that shit.
“I’ve given up on donating to politics. Figure it makes more sense to burn it in the fireplace.”
The words exchanged are sharp, but the two smile and slap each other on the back as if they are best buds.
“Who’s this delectably dressed young lady?” Richard’s attention turns to me and I’m surprised that his gaze is warm and friendly rather than predatory. I think I was expecting something totally different. But Kaga did warn me that Rich is charming.
“Victoria Corielli meet Rich Howe. His family is practically one of the original four hundred.”
I hold out my hand but Rich doesn’t shake it. Instead, he pulls it toward his lips as Kaga did. Before he makes contact, Ian slides his large palm over the top of my fingers.
“So it’s that way?” Rich says, one eyebrow quirking up.
“Kissing’s too fancy for me,” I interject, not wanting Ian to get into a pissing match when I’m supposed to be luring in Rich with my non-existent wiles. “Nice to meet you, Rich.”
“Call me Richard. Ian here knows me from way back and still can’t stop using Rich, but I beg you to envision me as something other than a little boy with a beanie and short pants, so Richard.” He offers his hand and I shake. He has a firm, cool shake and if he lingers overlong it’s not so noticeable that it makes me uncomfortable.
Under the bar lights, his hair looks shiny.
“Go for a swim?” I guess.
His smile is impish. “Yes, the pools are irresistible. I heard management over at 1 Oak is upset because some of its exclusive clientele can’t seem to tear themselves away.”
“I’ve never been there,” I admit, but I’m curious. These are bars and clubs that I might have heard about in passing but have never had any interest in visiting, primarily because they would be too expensive and I doubted I could get in.
“It’s an old-school establishment. Still entertaining.” He leans close and in a low voice says, “I’ll take you some time.”
I can’t help but glance at Ian, whose narrowed gaze is focused with laser-like precision on Rich. Ian really dislikes this guy, and he’s suddenly making no attempt to hide it. Discreetly, I step backward onto the tip of his shoe and press down, not too hard but enough to get his attention.
He shakes his head as if he’s woken from a trance. “You look thirsty, Tiny,” he says and walks off before I can respond.
We both watch as Ian saunters away.
“You and Kerr?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
I shrug in what I hope is a coy manner. “We’re friends.”
“He seems off tonight. Did you guys have a bad dinner?”
“No, I think he’s tired. He got back from a business trip.”
“Oh, what about?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t pay much attention.” I know instinctively that Ian would not like for me to share any personal information with Rich, no matter how innocent. “How did you get here, or shouldn’t I ask? All Ian had to do was nod at the bouncer.”
“Turnover at these places is frequent, mostly because of the constant employee fraternization. The staff at these places cycle in and out. Go to enough clubs and you’ll get to know the people who work the door. Once you’ve made your contacts, you have no problem getting past the guardians at the gate.” He ducks his head and snorts. “There. I’ve now admitted I’m practically a barfly.”
“No, not at all. Just social,” I reassure him. His-self deprecation may be an act, but it’s a good one. “Do you know much about the owner?” I’m curious if he knows the connection between Ian and Kaga.