It was a slight, and he meant it that way.
“I have sufficient funds available,” Cookie Jar snapped.
“Private funds?”
“Family wealth.” That hadn’t existed a mere five years ago and had been stolen from sources like D4D. It was likely Cookie Jar had dipped his thieving fingers into half the charities in the room tonight.
Halsey shook his head. “No. I run an exclusive fund. American investors only. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you don’t fit my investor profile.” Now that was more than a slight and slightly less than an outright insult, and it had the desired effect. Cookie Jar’s expression narrowed to thunderous, and he slapped his napkin on the table. Just as he was about to stand to stalk off, Halsey said, “I understand you’re building a palace.”
It was time for the bait and switch.
“It is a house for the people. A gift to Ossovia. A tourism destination,” Cookie Jar said.
It was a private fortress with a moat from what Sherwoods’ surveillance had indicated.
“I wonder if you might be interested in acquiring some art? I only ask because I’m aware you are a lover of the rare and valuable. It’s a passion we share.”
And with that, the beast was mollified. But he was not tamed. “I have no need for art.”
Halsey recognized the bluff and called it. He made a show of relief, shaking his head. “I’m pleased. I was sorry I’d mentioned it as soon as it was out of my mouth. I would not like to have to compete with you for a Kandinsky or a Warhol.”
“You know of works by these artists for sale? That would be highly unusual.”
“Yes.” He rubbed his forehead. Time to cut and run.
Lenny was by his side in seconds. “Excuse me, Mr. Prime Minister. Halsey, have you given yourself a headache,” she asked, with a hand to his shoulder.
“Too busy talking to eat,” he said, nodding, his hand still on his head.
“We should go. You don’t want it to turn into a migraine.”
Agreeing, he stood and took her hand.
“A moment,” said Cookie Jar. “I would be honored if you would allow me to accompany you to see these artworks.”
Halsey feigned annoyance, which is what Cookie Jar wanted him to feel. “You have me at a disadvantage, Prime Minister.”
“I feel sure you will withstand it.”
“I’ll be in contact with your embassy about a time to view the paintings. The gallery is accepting sealed bids.” Competitive honor made Halsey offer his hand. “It was good to talk to you.”
Cookie Jar stood, and they shook, and with Lenny on his arm, Halsey led the way around the table saying their farewells.
He took his first big breath of air when their feet hit the boardwalk. His stomach was growling, and his tie was strangling him. Lenny’s perfume was in his head. He tugged the tie undone, took it off, and shoved it in his pocket with the hand not gripping Lenny’s as if it were the fifty-plus million dollars he was hoping to sting Cookie Jar for.
“Did you just try to sell Cookie Jar a painting?” she said, face tipped up, amusement on her lips that made nerve endings down his back and over his thighs sting with pleasure.
“Yes, my little cue reader. I am about to sell that crook a fake painting he will pay a fortune for in order to beat me to it, because I won’t let him have the thing he wants more.”
“And what’s that?”
“An investment in a nonexistent cryptocurrency that will bankrupt him.”
She laughed. “If I called you a devious genius, how would you react?”
“By doing this.” He caught her close, shielding her body from passers-by while he traced a finger from her collarbone, down the edge of her neckline, over the swell of her breast, and to the point that ended where a woman’s bra normally would, but where he felt nothing except Lenny’s warm skin and the hiccup of her breath. His own got shallow, rasped in his throat.
“I like that reaction,” she said, eyelids gone heavy.