“Ms. Hogan never sleeps, sir,” Donal said. “I’ll call her.”
“Miller, it’s well after midnight. Leave the woman alone,” Nathan said.
But Donal had already picked up the house phone. He spoke a couple of sentences and hung up. “She’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“We’ll need three sheets of paper and three envelopes,” Miller said before turning back to the table. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things when I was drunk, but this may be the most ridiculous one.” He looked at Nathan and then at Archer. “We can cancel this right now before it goes any further.”
Teresa’s face floated through Nathan’s mind, and his anger came to a boil. “I’m still in.”
“You backing out, Miller?” Archer asked.
The writer shook his head. “Pardon my moment of sanity.” He took a swallow of bourbon. “Gentlemen, I suggest we ponder our stakes.”
Nathan leaned back in his chair, taking a mental inventory of his possessions. There wasn’t much he gave a damn about. That was the problem with his whole life these days. Then an idea crossed his scotch-soaked mind.
“That’s a downright unpleasant smile, Trainor.” Miller was lounging in his chair, dangling his glass over one of its arms.
“I’ve decided on my wager,” Nathan said.
“Are you sure it’s something that would draw a high bid?”
“I guarantee it.” Nathan tossed back the rest of his drink.
Miller turned to Archer. “Have you made your decision?”
“Made it five minutes ago.” Pulling a silver pen out of his pocket, the quarterback sat forward and scrawled a number with multiple zeroes following it on his napkin before reversing it for Nathan and Miller to read. “Just to sweeten the pot, we should add a significant monetary donation to the charity.”
“Done,” Nathan said, impressed by the scale of the quarterback’s suggestion. The man was a competitor.
The door to the bar swung open, and a tiny white-haired woman in a navy-blue pantsuit strode in. “Gentlemen, I understand there’s illicit gambling going on in my establishment.” She had a whiskey-hoarse voice with a tiny lilt of Irish. “I want a piece of it.”
The three men stood and Miller laughed. “Frankie, we’re wagering on matters of the heart, and you haven’t got one.”
Frankie’s green eyes snapped with amusement. “Clearly, I can feel pity, because I let you join my club.”
Nathan pulled a chair up to the table and held it for the club’s legendary founder. Frances “Frankie” Hogan had started with nothing and had made a billion dollars, but had been refused entry to New York’s most exclusive clubs. So she’d bought a magnificent brownstone and established the Bellwether Club, with rules that excluded most of the old-money crowd. Which meant, of course, that the old money wanted in.
As they all settled into their chairs, Donal brought over the stationery Miller had requested, along with three Montblanc Meisterstück pens.
“You’re famous for your honesty and your ability to keep a secret,” Nathan said to Frankie.
“Along with ruthlessness, cunning, and sheer cussedness,” Miller murmured.
Nathan silenced him with a stare before turning back to Frankie. “So we’re entrusting you with the personal stakes in our wager, sealed in separate envelopes. Each one of us can win or lose individually, but it takes the agreement of all three to declare someone a winner.”
“I’ll want to read them to make sure they’re legit,” Frankie said.
Nathan looked around the table. The other men nodded.
“What’s the time frame?” Frankie asked.
“One year,” Archer said. “Anyone who hasn’t claimed their stakes back by then is declared a loser.”
Frankie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “A long-term game.”
Since they hadn’t originally set a time limit, Nathan considered Archer’s proposal. The quarterback was right; this project shouldn’t be rushed. He nodded. “One year. Miller?”
“Agreed,” the writer said without hesitation.
Nathan had the thought that they were all drunker than they appeared.
“I’ll lock them in my private safe,” Frankie said. “Who’s going first?”
Miller picked up a pen and scrawled his name on an envelope before pulling a sheet of thick cream vellum toward him. “I’ll trust my fellow bettors not to read over my shoulder.” He scribbled several words on the paper and handed it to the club owner.
Frankie read it and gave him a long, appraising look before she folded the sheet and sealed it in the envelope.
Archer used his own pen to write his forfeit. Frankie whistled when she read the paper but made no other comment as she sealed the envelope.
Nathan addressed his envelope and wrote a description of the gift on the sheet. Frankie read it before raising a troubled gaze to his. “Are you sure?”