Mr. Whiskey

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Some people call me a fixer. Others call me a dealmaker. Really, I’m just an asshole with a fuckton of money. And tonight I aim to throw Grover Clevelands around like they’re candy, not discontinued notes.

My phone buzzes as I pull into the long square drive of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, and drop my keys in the valet’s hand. You’re late. We’re waiting in Kirkwood Hall.

“Is that a…” The young man’s eyes go round as he stares at my convertible Lotus.

“It is, and no you can’t take it for a spin.” My cell phone buzzes again. Are you coming?

The only reason I let Muffy Templeton talk me into releasing my inaugural cask reserve at tonight’s Picasso wing fundraiser for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art is because her mother was bosom friends with my great-grandmother. That, and her husband Robert has no problem losing part of his fortune every week at The Whiskey Den.

I smell Muffy before I see her, drenched in her signature lilac scented perfume and dripping in diamonds. “Darling. You must hurry. The guests will be arriving in less than thirty minutes.”

I kiss her wrinkled cheek, biting back a sharp retort. Instead, I wink at her. “You worry too much. I promised I’d be here.”

She pats my cheek like I’m her son. “It’s a good thing you’re so handsome, Danny Pendergast.”

She’s not wrong. My looks and my charm have taken me much farther than the Pendergast name, not that it means much anymore. My great-grandfather might have been the stuff of legends, but his legacy lives on only in the mystique of a bygone era.

Muffy takes my elbow, leading me into Kirkwood Hall, which has been transformed into something out of the twenties, complete with a bandstand in the corner with an old-fashioned microphone. “I found someone to help you for the first hour. Once the whiskey’s out, I hope you’ll stay and mingle.”

I nod, hoping the ‘help’ isn’t her fumble-fingered grandson like it was the last time I let myself get talked into helping Muffy with one of her garden parties. Or worse, the granddaughter she’s been trying to set me up with for the past two years. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed more than my fair share of debs — eager young women bored with college frat-boys and looking for a real man. One who deals in orgasms and no-strings-attached f***s. And there will be plenty of p***y here tonight, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry this evening. Muffy has pulled out all the stops for this fundraiser, and fully half of tonight’s attendees hail from every major city in the country. High stakes poker, even for a cause, is irresistible to those caught in its web. I should know, it’s what brought my great-grandfather to his knees.

Tom Pendergast might have spent his last days under a cloud of shame, but the fact he did hard time only adds to his legendary mystique. All you have to do is stroll through the Crossroads and count the distilleries and bars with his name on them. Me? I choose to honor my great-grandfather in a more… apropos manner. Helping damsels in distress, not asking too many questions about where the cash for my exorbitant membership fees come from. Building relationships with influencers in both the underworld and the business world, because it’s funny, how often the two seem to be one and the same. But as long as my money keeps rolling, I don’t give a s**t. And tonight, the Whiskey Den will be hopping. I’ve made sure the word has quietly gone out to a few key members that a private, high-stakes game will take place after midnight. So as much as I’d like a tryst in a darkened corner away from the security cameras, I need to bring my A-game.

But one look at my help’s backside has me regretting the choice to leave the condoms by the bedside table. I don’t know what to appreciate first, the arc of her spine that flares into wide hips, or the long red hair that cascades to the middle of her back in thick waves. It takes a second to register she’s carrying two boxes of booze-filled flasks, Muffy’s idea to send my whiskey home with every guest tonight. I curse, and hurry to take the boxes. “Here. Let me.”

I step around her and slip my arms underneath hers. The electricity when we touch is instant. Fire races under my skin, heating my blood.

Her gaze meets mine with a hint of amusement. “I’ve got it, thanks.”

She’s not beautiful in the cover-model sense, but she’s arresting, and utterly unforgettable. High cheekbones highlight sparkling amber eyes. Her mouth is full and wide — the kind of mouth that men fantasize about wrapped around their c**k — and it pulls into a smile I can’t help but return. I gently take the boxes, regretting only that we’re no longer touching. “I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let you carry those.” I set first one, then the other on a pair of high-tops and begin pulling flasks.

She joins, me, removing flasks from the second box. “I appreciate your chivalry and all, but—”

“Lemme guess, you’ve got it?” I turn to face her, but the remaining words die in my mouth when I catch sight of the snake tattoo crawling up and around her right leg, bared thanks to the insanely high slit in her black glittery dress. My mouth goes dry as I take in the rest of her front side. She’s tall, nearly my height in her stilettos, which makes her five-ten, maybe five-eleven in bare feet. Her t**s are like sirens, full and lush under the fabric stretched tight across them. My neck heats as I force my eyes to hers, because holy f**k, this woman could make a living as a goddamned pinup girl.

“I was going to say, I don’t need rescuing,” she tosses back, still amused, and extends her hand. “Roxi.”

I take hers, perversely pleased at the grip that’s as strong as my own. This is no damsel in distress, and it’s sexy as f**k. “Danny. I brought the booze.”

Her smile grows, and she makes no move to loosen her hand. “Ahh. Mr. Whiskey.”

“Sure. You can call me that.” Every cliché come-on runs through my head. I clear my throat. “Why don’t you set up the flasks, I’ll grab the rest of the boxes.”

“Already done.” She points to the other tables near the entrance. “These are just the extras.”

“I hope you’ll let me buy you a drink later, for your troubles.”

“No trouble at all, and maybe.”

“You have to let me thank you some way,” I offer, not wanting this to be the end of our interaction.

Her eyes smolder as we lock gazes again. In less time than it takes to inhale, I’m hard. Balls tight and aching with need. “I’m sure I can think of something,” she answers with a slow grin before turning and gliding away, hips swaying like a snake charmer.

A hand lands on my shoulder. “You might want to put your tongue back in your mouth, pal,” says the laughing voice of Harrison Steele low enough that no one else can hear. “I could see the sparks flying between you two from across the room.”

I turn to shake his hand. Harrison is one of my oldest friends, and was one of my earliest investors. “I thought you had a date?” My implication is clear — hands off. And it’s best to be clear with Harrison, because he considers p***y chasing a sport. And if it was, he’d have won all the Olympic medals. It’s hard to blame him, he’s got those irresistible All-American good looks — dark hair, blue eyes, and at least according to my bar manager Lisa, a c**k that’s legendary. Women eat him up like they do pints of Ben & Jerry’s. Me? I’m more of an acquired taste — whiskey neat, with a healthy dose of cynicism.

He scowls. “Ditched me.”

“No f*****g way. Kansas City’s most eligible bachelor is flying solo at the gala of the year?”

“Not solo.” He winks. “You’re going to be my wingman.”

“Oh no.” I shake my head, grimacing at the memory of the one time I was Harrison’s wingman in college. The night did not end well. “I told you I’m never doing that again.”

“Aww, c’mon.” Harrison claps my shoulder. “How was I supposed to know that Samantha’s friend was dating the president of TKE?”

“Because these are the things you bother to find out when you push your friend into the arms of a strange woman.” Thank god the guy was so wasted that when he took his shot, he swung wide, and I was able to drop him with a right hook to the jaw. “Besides, I promised Muffy I’d tend bar until the flasks were handed out.”

Harrison rolls his eyes. “Always behind the scenes, pulling strings like a puppet-master. When are you going to let go and start enjoying life?”

I sidestep his question with one of my own. “Where’s Stockton?”

“He refused to come tonight because his mother keeps trying to set him up with one of Muffy’s granddaughters.”

“Stockton’s mother has been trying to marry him off since college.”

“It’s only gotten worse,” Harrison states with a scowl. She’s taken to ‘dropping by the office’ with a new girl each week.”

“Sounds like you could use a drink,” I say, moving to the makeshift bar and filling a tumbler of whiskey directly from the cask. I hand it to him. “Tom’s Special Reserve.”

He lifts his glass in a toast. “To snatching kisses and kissing snatch.”

“Who is she?” I ask, suddenly suspicious. It’s not like Harrison to be that crude.

“No one,” he answers too sharply.

“Liar. Your eyebrow always twitches when you lie,” I say pointing to the corner of his eye. “Whoever she is, she’s got you tied up in knots.”

Harrison’s eyebrows knit together. “The only tying up going on will be happening later tonight.”

“But not with Roxi. Just so we’re clear,” I growl pouring myself a tumbler. It’s not like me to stake a claim, but I’ve seen Harrison work. He loves the chase almost as much as winning the prize. And I don’t know what happened when Roxi and I touched, but I’ve never felt electrocuted by a woman’s touch before. Not like this.

“Roxi, huh? That her name?” Harrison’s smile turns sly.

“Don’t get any ideas. My love life’s off limits.”

He spreads is hands. “I just want to help.”

“You want to help? Spread the word — discretely — about tonight’s poker game.”

Harrison quickly turns serious. “What’s the buy in?”

“Fifty.” He knows I mean thousand. “Limited to the first five. If we have ten, I’ll do a second seating at one.”

He nods. “See you at midnight?”