Someone to Watch Over Me Read online

  He eyed her for a long moment, standing in the foyer, his coat over his arm. “It strikes me as corny and meaningless.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Because,” he said bluntly, “it is corny and meaningless.”

  Courtney had been prepared to either like him or dislike him, but she had not expected to find him . . . interesting. She rarely met anyone over thirty who was interesting, and according to her preliminary research, Michael Patrick Valente was not only over thirty, he was one year past forty. He was also one quarter Irish—on his grandmother’s side—three inches over six feet in height, and he preferred custom-tailored suits from Savile Row. He had a hard jaw, thick dark hair, straight brows, and interesting eyes—eyes that were narrowed on her at the moment.

  “Are you planning to invite me in?” he asked.

  “Oh. Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else. Do you play gin?”

  “Is Mrs. Manning home?” he replied.

  “Not yet, but O’Hara and I are in the kitchen. Why don’t you join us there?”

  He looked relieved at the mention of O’Hara’s name, and after handing her his coat to hang up, he accompanied her to the kitchen. Courtney stopped in the doorway and let him precede her; then she leaned against the doorframe as she had the last time he’d been there and studied his profile at her leisure. She knew he’d served four years in prison for manslaughter and spent his free time there reading law books in the prison library. She also knew he’d spent the next six years working and earning an undergraduate degree with a dual major and a 3.9 average from the State University of New York at Stony Brook and the two years after that getting his MBA from Harvard.

  O’Hara started forward as soon as he saw Valente walk into the kitchen, but Valente was blocking O’Hara’s view of Courtney in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” O’Hara said, “but Mrs. Manning isn’t home yet, and so I never got a chance to tell her you were coming over.”

  “That’s okay,” Valente said. “I haven’t any plans for the evening.” He reached out and shook O’Hara’s hand, a smile lurking at his mouth. “Are you playing governess, as well as bodyguard and chauffeur these days, Bruiser?”

  “You’re talking about Courtney,” Joe guessed. “No, I’m playing gin rummy with her and for once I’m not getting my ass whipped. We may have a while to wait before Mrs. Manning gets back. You want some coffee or wine or something?”

  “Coffee sounds good. Black.”

  Joe poured coffee into a cup and handed it to him. “You want to wait in the living room?”

  “No, I like it better in here.”

  “It’s real cozy,” he agreed. He glanced uncertainly at the table where he’d been playing cards with Courtney, as if he couldn’t decide whether it was more appropriate to clear the cards away for the guest in the kitchen, or to invite the guest—who was actually a coconspirator—to join Courtney and him at the table.

  Courtney had absolutely no interest in being appropriate and had a very strong desire to capitalize on this golden opportunity to spend time with a notoriously illusive billionaire with a criminal record and a history of ongoing clashes with the legal system. “Why don’t we all sit down at the table,” she suggested.

  Relieved that she’d made the decision for him, O’Hara picked up his beer from the counter and walked over to the table. Valente sat down next to him and casually propped his elbow on the back of his chair. Courtney sat down next to Valente and opposite O’Hara. In the awkward silence that briefly followed, she decided the best way to accomplish her immediate goal was probably to force both men into a state of relaxed congeniality, whether they wanted it or not. She picked up the deck of cards, split it, and let the cards cascade into place with a whoosh and a snap. She repeated the process twice more, and dealt O’Hara a hand.

  “Go on with your game,” Valente politely urged the chauffeur. “I didn’t mean to interrupt it.”

  “You can play the winner,” Courtney informed Valente, giving him no choice in the matter. She dealt out the cards to O’Hara, but all her conversation was aimed at Valente. “Joe was telling me that you and Leigh are old friends?”

  When Valente didn’t answer, she was forced to look up inquiringly from her hand. Valente’s only response was to quirk one eyebrow at her.

  “If I remember correctly,” she continued a moment later, “Joe said you knew each other when Leigh was in college.” When he still didn’t answer, she glanced sideways at him and drew a card. This time, he raised both brows and looked speculatively at her.

  “I think Joe also mentioned that—at some point—you saved Leigh from a mugging?” Frustrated by his silence, she discarded the card she meant to keep. “Is that right?” she demanded a little testily, looking at him. The lights in the kitchen were slightly dimmed, but there was enough light for Courtney to catch the spark of amusement in his eyes. O’Hara drew his next card; then Courtney drew hers, started to discard it, rolled her eyes in frustration, and laid down her hand instead. “Gin!” she declared.

  Valente’s shoulders started to shake with laughter. Confusion and uncertainty were emotions Courtney was accustomed to evoking in others; she wasn’t accustomed to experiencing them personally. The sensation was so novel that she rather admired Valente for putting her into that unaccustomed emotional state; however, she had no idea what he was finding so amusing, and she did not intend to let the status quo continue.

  She picked up the deck and shuffled the cards. “Let’s make it interesting,” she said to Valente, dealing out both hands with the skill and speed of a professional gambler.

  Forced into playing gin with her, he slowly removed his arm from the back of the chair, picked up his hand, and lazily inquired, “How interesting?” at the same time his discard hit the center of the table.

  He was very quick, trying to rattle her and force her to play too fast. “Twenty dollars a point,” she replied, ignoring Joe’s horrified gasp, and making her own discard.

  “Can you afford to lose that much?”

  “Yes,” she replied, making her next play. “Can you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Courtney drew a card, but paused so that she could look at him as she answered. “I think you don’t like to lose,” she told him. “Not money, not at cards, and not at anything else either.” She laid down her discard and waited for him to take the bait and say something informative.

  He glanced at her discard and said, “Gin.”

  “What! I don’t believe you!” she exclaimed, leaning forward to look at the cards he’d fanned out for her inspection. She stared in disbelief at a hand that was nowhere near a winning one. “What is that supposed to be?” she demanded, scowling.

  “At twenty dollars a point, I’d say that’s either a used car or a fur coat for you.”

  Courtney gazed at him, caught somewhere between irritation and bafflement. “I don’t want a car or a fur coat.”

  “You don’t?” he said smoothly, shoving the cards toward her so that she could deal them again if she chose. “Then why are we playing for twenty dollars a point?”

  Without taking her eyes from his face, Courtney slowly picked up the cards and began to shuffle them. She smiled because she couldn’t help it. She smiled because she thought he was actually quite handsome. She smiled because she thought he was inscrutable, complicated, clever, and very possibly dangerous. She smiled because she thought he was awesome. But then a thought hit her and she suspended her good opinion, pending his answer. “By any chance,” she said, watching him closely as she dealt the next hand, “did you do that because you thought I couldn’t afford to pay twenty dollars a point if I lost?”

  “No. I imagine your allowance is big enough to cover your gambling losses.”

  “Why, specifically, would you think that? It can’t be the way I’m dressed.”

  “Aren’t you Noah Maitland’s sister?”

  Courtney nodded. “How did you know?”

&n