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menu could mean she had in fact come in here not by design but because she was hungry, and that she really didn’t realize she had seated herself next to a man she had, only moments ago, been trying to seduce—figuratively speaking—with a sweet smile and a plunging neckline.
    But he doubted it.
    He doubted it even more when she turned to look at him and brightened in the way women did when things were going exactly according to their plans. “Why, Mr. . . . Gustafson, wasn’t it?” she asked, sounding surprised to find him sitting beside her in a way that indicated she was in no way surprised to find him sitting beside her. Nor had she forgotten his name, he was certain. She just wanted to rankle him, the way he’d wanted to rankle her earlier by deliberately calling her by the wrong name.
    “Guthrie,” he corrected in a way he told himself did not sound rankled.
    “That’s right,” she replied affably. “Fitz Guthrie.”
    “Finn,” he corrected her again, in a way he told himself did not sound really rankled.
    She made a soft tsk ing noise and lifted a hand to nudge back that shaft of blond hair that kept falling over her forehead. The shaft of blond that Finn kept wanting to reach over and nudge back himself. “Silly me,” she said. “I am so bad with names.”
    Right. That was why she’d been able to find out more about him and Russell than he was comfortable with her knowing. Would that she had been bad with names, he wouldn’t be sitting here with her now, getting ready to shoot her down again before she started carping about her event again. Of course, if that had been the case, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t be sitting here enjoying the soft, sweet scent of her, either.
    Ah, hell.
    “Look, Ms. Beckett—” he began.
    “So you do remember my name,” she interjected, her smile moving into the smug range now.
    He ignored her statement. And her smugness. “I appreciate your . . . tenacity . . .” he began. With remarkable restraint, too, since the word he was really thinking was pigheadedness , which he was absolutely certain was not a word a man should use with a woman he didn’t want hitting him with a brick. “. . . in your pursuit . . .” he continued with even more remarkable restraint, since the word he really wanted to use was stalking , which was another one of those words that put a woman on alert and also made her pick up a brick. “. . . of my employer. But as I told you at the hotel before—”
    “You know, the way you say that,” she interrupted before he could finish, “you make me sound like I’m pigheaded or a stalker or something.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. The thought never crossed my mind.”
    “But I’m neither,” she assured him. “I simply want to give Mr. Mulholland the opportunity to enjoy the time-honored Kentucky tradition of celebrating the most venerable horse race in the world on the eve of its running, by attending a formal benefit surrounded by like-minded individuals, enjoying Louisville hospitality at its finest.”
    “That’s a pretty inflated way to say you want Mr. Mulholland to come to a party,” Finn pointed out. “Especially since it will be everyone except Mr. Mulholland who benefits, since he’d likely be the star attraction and everyone would want a piece of his time. Time, I might point out,” he hurried on when she opened her mouth to interrupt him again, “that is worth more on an hourly basis than even your hostess could afford to pay him. Not that you’ve indicated he’d be paid, since you’re also asking him to pay for the privilege of being taken advantage of.”
    “It’s a fund-raiser,” she reminded him. “And my client would be happy to cover Mr. Mulholland’s contribution herself if he agrees to come. And the cause is an excellent one. My client is raising money for a group that—”
    This time Finn was the one to interrupt, since the last thing he wanted to hear about was some bleeding heart organization