Infiltrating Your Heart (10 page)

I find parking once I get to the
restaurant. Locking my car, I start walking. There are a bunch of people
walking around. I make my way to the entrance of the restaurant. I see that
there are outdoor tables.

Three of the five tables are occupied.
I look at the one where there’s only one person sitting. He’s a man, wearing a
black suit jacket and dark gray pants. His back is to me. When I get closer, I
see he’s reading a book.

I walk in front of the man, wanting
to see if he recognizes me. I don’t want to take the chance that he’s not my
client, even though it appears he is. His eyes look up at me.

“Scarlet Quinn?” he asks.

“That’s me.”

The man stands up. He offers his
hand, and I shake it. His grip is strong.

“You’re hotter in person than you
look in photos.”

“Thanks,” I say. I must admit I
couldn’t say the same about him. He appears to be in his late thirties, but is just
okay-looking. I could have had worse.

The man gives me my payment.

“Now that you’re here, we can leave.
If you don’t mind, that is. Are you hungry?”

“No,” I reply. It’s the truth. I
never meet a client if I’m starving. I learned that the hard way. Now, I eat a
Pop Tart beforehand to calm my hunger. I’m the kind of girl that would make a
great candidate for one of those Snickers commercials.

“That’s good,” the man replies. We
walk away from the restaurant.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a commemoration party for
the mayor. I’m, well, not married, and I’m in politics. I’m counting on looking
favorable in front of the mayor, if I have such an attractive woman by my
side.”

The man tells me this sounding like I
might frown at him or something. But I don’t mind this. Men could use me for
less agreeable stuff, which I
would
frown at.

“You’re on,” I say. “I could get you
to be Governor if that’s what you’re after.” I definitely got the looks.

That incites a smile from the man.

“I like you,” he says, and we stop. I
look in front of me and see his car. I’m used to seeing expensive rides now, so
I don’t squeal like a girl. Not that I didn’t do that before. This one’s a new
Aston Martin. The man opens the door for me, and I get in. He goes over to the
driver’s side.

It takes him five minutes to get us
to one of the best reception halls in the city. My client (Mr. Favorable, I’ve
fondly dubbed him) appears to have a reserved space, because he parks almost as
soon as we get there. I smile, thinking that’s one of the perks of having
money. Money may not buy happiness, but it sure makes life a hell of a lot
easier.

Mercedes

Moments later, Mr. Favorable and I walk
into the hall. I look around, eyebrows raised. These days, it’s not easy to
impress me. There are a lot of VIPs here. Men are wearing tailored suits and
women are showing off a variety of gorgeous dresses.

As we walk forward, I surreptitiously
look down at myself. I’m glad I dress up well for my assignments.
My client
didn’t
warn me that I had to wear formal clothing. Tonight, I’m wearing a violet
tank-top dress. The skirt reaches to just below my knees and has a discreet
slit on the side. I’ve paired my clothing with black high-heels and a
gold-colored purse. I combed my hair into a neat chignon as well.

“That’s the Mayor,” says Mr.
Favorable. I look towards the man he nods to. Of course I know who the Mayor
is. He’s tall, with short dark hair, hazel eyes, and white skin. His age is
somewhere close to sixty. The Mayor is wearing a white T-shirt and striped blue
tie under black three-piece suit. His black loafers are polished to a
mirror-like finish.

“We’ll go talk to him in a moment.”

I nod at Mr. Favorable. I’ve never
met the Mayor in person. He’s in conversation with a couple of old big shots.
Next to him is who I take to be his wife. She’s stunning, and appears to be a
few years younger than her husband. Her eyes are green, and her hair is golden
brown. I would bet she dyes it, or it would have a lot of gray now.

Mr. Favorable and I talk to a few
people. They all regard me with approval. I just hope they don’t learn I’m an
escort. I’m not ashamed of what I do, I’d just rather not give anyone reasons
to look down at me.

The Mayor is too busy, so I follow my
client to a table and we sit down. I feel a bit out of place. This is the first
time I’ve been to an event where the majority of the attendees are such
high-society people. Luckily, I can play the part well. All I hope is that I
don’t look too young.

To my utter surprise, the Mayor
himself walks up to our table a few moments later. I tear my gaze from him long
enough to see Mr. Favorable struggling to mask his excitement. I stifle a
laugh.

“Mr. Fullerton,” the Mayor says. My
client stands up and shakes his hand. I stand up as well. “It’s a pleasure to
meet you. The city attorney was just telling me about you. I thought I’d stop
for a word.”

“Wow. Well, I’m honored to meet you,
Mr. Mayor.”

The Mayor nods, and then he looks at
me.

“Who is this lovely lady, Mr.
Fullerton?”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I
was holding. For a moment there, I thought the Mayor was going to ask, “Is this
your daughter, Mr. Fullerton?”

“She’s—”

“Ms. Quinn,” I cut across Mr.
Favorable as I shake hands with the Mayor. “It’s a great honor to meet you,
sir,” I say with a smile.

“Girlfriend?” the Mayor asks, looking
at my client.

“No. She’s just an acquaintance.”

The
Mayor nods. He then has a brief chat with us before greeting other attendees. I
think his assessment of my client and I was…favorable. Believe this saying:
behind every great man, there’s a great woman. I may be temporary in Mr.
Fullerton’s life, but it still applies.

~*~
Gabriel

The party is going well. I look at
the Mayor as he walks through the tables, greeting the guests.

I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for
Evelyn. Even though I’m aware a lot of women desire me, my family just isn’t as
influential as the Carrolls. They are among the crowd, but Evelyn is running
around, talking to the media. She has the role of the Carrolls’ PR person.

Evelyn told me she’d be too busy to
be with me most of the night, so she suggested I invite Patrick. We’re sitting
at a table right now, watching the guests. Ciara was invited too, but she
couldn’t attend.

“Some party,” Patrick says. He’s
drinking expensive champagne as he looks around. “It’s not every day I get
drinks like these.”

“Yeah, it’s the cream of the crop,” I
agree. Then I look up as an older couple approach us. From what Evelyn told me,
they’re great friends of the Carroll family.

“Mr. O’Hara,” the man says. I shake
hands with him. “Glad to see you again.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Good evening, um, Mr. O’Hara,” says
the man’s wife, looking at Patrick. The corners of his lips turn upward.

“You can call me Mr. Grant-O’Hara.”

Patrick and I are really
stepbrothers. Our mother dated his dad since her senior year in high school. He
died in a police shootout a year before college graduation. This left our
mother devastated. What kept her alive is that she had been three months
pregnant with Patrick. Later on, she met my father and they got married. They
had me shortly afterward. When Patrick grew up, he appended his biological
father’s last name to his own. So now, he goes by Patrick Grant-O’Hara. It
avoids confusion.

The older couple leaves after a short
chat. A few seconds later, Patrick makes a comment.

“Speaking of the cream of the crop.”

I look towards the table where he’s
looking. When I see who’s sitting there, my eyes bulge.

“Judging by your expression, I gather
that you know her,” Patrick says.

“Yes. I met her a few days ago. She’s
Mercedes.”

“She’s smoldering. No wonder you
didn’t want to tell me about her.”

I laugh, still looking at Mercedes.
It is then that her eyes sweep the area. She must be sensing someone looking at
her. When our eyes meet, her expression of surprise mirrors my own.

Before I can get up to walk to her
table, Mercedes stands up. She disappears to the restroom. With a brow furrowed
in confusion, I look at her table. I didn’t notice who was sitting with her.
The man seems familiar. I think he’s a local politician.

“How come Mercedes is here?” I ask no
one in particular. “I didn’t know she was affluent.”

“I don’t know about her, but her
friends clearly are,” Patrick replies. His expression is unreadable.

“You think that man’s her friend?”

“Why else would she be sitting there
with him? I doubt they’re related, or even dating.”

I watch the guy for a few moments.
He’s approached by a few men. They engage him in conversation. I make my
decision.

“I want to talk to her,” I say.

“Evelyn is still around,” Patrick
reminds me.

“I’ll keep it short.”

I stand up and walk around the
perimeter of the room. As I walk, I barely pause to greet the people I walk
past. I glance around, seeing the Mayor engaged in conversation across the
room.

When I walk past a small table with
appetizers and drinks, I run into Mercedes. I chastise myself for not paying
more attention where I walk.

“Sorry,” Mercedes says. When she
looks at me, her eyes flash in recognition.

“Mr. O’Hara!”

I smile, glad that she remembers me.

“Please, call me Gabriel,” I say
before I can think of other words. Damn, I should have used my brain-to-mouth
filter. I hope that Mercedes doesn’t think I’m pretentious.

Mercedes just nods.

“I didn’t expect to see you here
tonight, Mercedes. Not that I’m not glad.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here,
either.”

Mercedes’s cheeks turn a little red
as I watch. I reach up and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. She closes
her eyes at the touch.

“If I may say so, you look fabulous.”

Mercedes smiles at me. I see her gaze
drop down to my mouth.

I see. The feeling is mutual.

“Thank you.”

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of
seeing you? I’ve been meaning to call you, but I wasn’t sure if it would be too
soon. And I’m starting to get swamped with work.”

“I…well, my friend invited me.”

I scan the room until I spot the man
who was with Mercedes. Now that I think about it, I think his name’s Fulton or
something.

“You know him?”

“Not really. He just comes by
my…workplace every now and then.”

“Where do you work?”

Mercedes looks away from me, taking
interest in the appetizers on the table. I follow her line of sight. She’s
looking at some powder cookies.

“I’m a…waitress.”

My jaw drops. Mercedes returns her
glance to me.

“Your, um, outfit doesn’t look within
the budget of a waitress,” I say, my tone careful.

“Well, I saved for a few years,” she
explains. “Every woman’s got to have at least one ‘outfit’ like this.”

A few years
, I think. This has me wondering how
old she is. Mercedes doesn’t look much older than nineteen or twenty. If I were
a bartender, I’d certainly card her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to judge.”

“No problem.”

Mercedes grabs a cookie and takes a
bite. I sense that she’s a little uncomfortable.

“What do you think of this
reception?”

Mercedes looks at me as though she’s
grateful for my change of subject.

“This is definitely the most lavish
party I’ve ever been to in my life.”

“I sort of deduced that by myself.
Your eyebrows look like they’re about to disappear into your hair.”