Flawless: (Fearsome Series Book 4)

by S. A. Wolfe

  Even though I’ve been in America for over ten years and am a citizen, I still have some doubts about where I belong. I want to belong to Hera, and the people here make me feel like I do, but there’s another part of me that still feels like a misplaced foreigner, the person who doesn’t always understand their inside jokes or how they maintain strong family relationships. Somehow, they do.

  Carson has held on to his younger brother through Dylan’s years of struggling with bipolar depression. Jess, who is truly a genius, gifted in math and computer software, has managed to strengthen her relationship with her standoffish, academic parents despite leaving her big New York City life behind for Carson and a career in art. And Lauren and Imogene always knew they would come back to Hera after college, get married, and start their families and business here.

  They reeled in men from outside of Hera. Leo and Cooper both came to town to work for Carson at Blackard Designs, but they stayed for the women they had fallen in love with. Sweet courtships I watched from a distance.

  I’d like to think I’m like my friends, that I’m building a life here. But, if I’m being completely honest, when it comes to fitting in, I have a problem. While the rest of my family can easily pass as native New Yorkers, I’m the only one who still sounds like I just arrived in this country. And I still make the most ridiculous mistakes. I don’t think I will ever live down the number of times I referred to the old reruns of the TV show Family Ties as Family Thighs. For years, I mispronounced Ts for th’s, much to Imogene’s delight. She loved doing impressions of my faux pas, entertaining the lunch crowd at her family’s diner. However, I believe I have remedied this situation by taking online speech and dictation lessons for the last year, working diligently to get rid of my accent.

  “Family Ties,” I say clearly to myself as I step inside Adam Knight’s home.

  I can smell the natural eucalyptus cleaning products that Aleska uses. Windows have been washed, rugs have vacuum cleaner tracks, all surfaces are gleaming, and no dust is free-floating in the last rays of sun spiraling through the immense windows. As I expected, the home is minimally furnished. Not stark, but just enough furniture and artwork to make it comfortable.

  What catches my attention is the grand piano at the far end of the living room. It’s showcased in a semicircular glass alcove that overlooks the woods off to the side of the house. I wonder if the master of the home can play or if it’s for show.

  My temptation to inspect the piano up close is brushed away with the need to do my assigned job. I find my way to the kitchen, where high-end appliances have that fresh-from-the-store appearance of never being used. I check the metal filters under the range hood and, sure enough, they are spotless. This has to be one of the easiest cleaning assignments for Aleska’s crew.

  The enormous refrigerator holds a few bottles of mineral water and beer. Unless he plans on eating most of his meals out, he’s going to need some groceries. My two or three dinners a week can be eaten as leftovers, but even I would get bored eating the same thing for three meals in a row.

  He’s wealthy and he’s single—obviously, look at this place. If there were a woman involved, there would be photographs of her with him on exotic vacations. There would be throw pillows and a few vases. There would be something personal to show that she’s here and this is her man. Unless he’s gay.

  I contemplate this for a moment, because the truth is, I’m hoping he’s not. It didn’t occur to me to do some internet research on this man. Aleska replied to his emails because I was too busy doing physical therapy and sleeping for the past two months. I assumed, and hoped, Adam Knight would be a nice, easy, no-fuss client like Carson was when I first started.

  I spot a magazine on the far end of the kitchen counter. It’s out of place in this overly sanitized home. Aleska must have placed it just so with its bottom edge sticking out over the lip of the counter so I’d notice it.

  I’ve never heard of this magazine because it’s about finance. Bloomberg Markets, ANNUAL HEDGE FUND ISSUE, THE TOP 100 is splashed across the cover with a model-handsome man underneath. He’s in a black suit, arms crossed, with a Rolex gleaming from underneath his shirt cuff. The man gives a smug smile, projecting enormous confidence and ego, everything this magazine is about. My sister is clever, and I’m on to her.

  The subheading on the cover confirms my suspicions. WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ADAM KNIGHT NOW? He makes enemies, instigates controversy, and runs KNIGHT, the world’s best-performing hedge fund.

  My gaze is glued to his sharp, hazel eyes and handsome face. His light brown hair is cut short and parted to the side, but not too short, so the ends curl slightly above his forehead, giving him a deceptively boyish appeal.

  “There’s nothing boyish about you, is there?” I ask the face staring back at me. “You are definitely smart and handsome, and probably a bit ruthless to be where you are.” I search the glossy cover for any sign that he may also be kind. I don’t open the magazine because I already know the article will tell me how wildly successful Mr. Knight is, with no mention of his kindness, if it does exist. This is a magazine about titans and winners on Wall Street. It does not measure people on a kindness scale. That, I will have to do myself.

  I put his food in the oven, then set the table for one. Then I tidy up so the kitchen is as clean as Aleska left it and walk back into the living room to admire the piano. It’s a Steinway, a rather old but well-maintained one from the looks of it. The keys haven’t yellowed with age; they look like perfect white teeth against the gleaming black wood. Me alone with a glorious grand piano is too tempting.

  I run a finger along the keys, firm enough to check tone. Someone has been keeping this beauty tuned. I slide in between the piano and the bench and sit down, but I pause with my hands poised above the keys, almost talking myself out of doing this. Too late. I’ve broken my silent pledge never to touch a client’s personal belongings, but I justify it by believing that tuned pianos must be played and enjoyed.

  It’s easy. My fingers remember everything as they slip into Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2. Years of lessons with my father on our flea market baby grand piano back in Lublin, which was then replaced with an upright piano when we moved to Queens, are burned into my brain and fingertips.

  When we moved to Hera, our piano, along with a few of our other valuables, had to be sold off at our one-day garage sale so we could pay off the rent that was overdue. My father had ignored the daily calls and letters sent from the collection agency, but when an intimidating man showed up at our door, and argued with my father about “a debt,” I wondered what kind of trouble my father was in. The kind of trouble that requires you to sell your family’s prized possessions.

  I miss having a piano. It’s not that I only miss playing it; I miss hearing my father play and my mother sing. Those were the good times.

  Leaving Queens felt like we were giving up as a family. Whatever was once good—my parents’ marriage, our music, our American dreams—seemed to have vanished instantly the minute we moved.

  I continue to play Mr. Knight’s piano. It’s as though my fingers have a mind of their own as they switch to Brahms. The melody is lovely and makes me smile from the inside, even as I think of my father’s betrayal that changed my family’s path.

  I’m sorry we weren’t enough for him, but I really try not to dwell on him too much. I imagine he doesn’t think about us that much either as he moves from one Florida beach town to another, engaging in his never-ending, money-making schemes with women who help him forget us.

  “That’s superb.” A deep voice startles me from behind.

  My hands slam down, causing the keys to shriek. Then I turn around and face the man who runs the world’s best-performing hedge fund. Whatever that is.

  “O Boze!” Oh God, oh God. I stand abruptly. “I apologize. I shouldn’t be playing your piano. Excuse me.” I rush toward the kitchen.

  “Wait. Somebody should be playing that thing. I certainly can’t.”

 
; I pause and turn around. Normally, I’m very composed, but I’m shaking slightly in his presence. Maybe because the good little girl got caught again.

  He tosses his keys on an end table and slings his suit coat on the couch.

  “I’ll set up your dinner and get out of your way,” I say hurriedly, silently cursing my unprofessional behavior.

  “Wait.” He laughs as he removes his tie and tosses it as well. “There’s no rush. I don’t mind you playing the piano. It was nice to walk in and hear music instead of the usual dead silence. I’m Adam, by the way, since we haven’t formally met.”

  “I’m Talia. You’ve corresponded with my sister, Aleska.”

  He walks toward me and extends his hand, which I take. His handshake is warm and firm, and his eyes lock with mine. A business handshake, I remind myself.

  “Your food is ready. Let me get it.” I waver a bit since he’s sending my hormones into a fit.

  Shaking those untrustworthy emotions aside, I remove his food from the oven and plate all the courses, arranging them on his kitchen table.

  Adam washes his hands at the kitchen sink, watching me with a casual curiosity.

  “I didn’t think to ask if you’d rather eat in your dining room. I assumed you’d prefer this smaller table.”

  “This is perfect. I’ve never had a real meal in this house. Thanks.” He sits down at the small table made for four and studies the cloth napkin. Most of our clients are quite affluent and have fully stocked cupboards of monogramed linens, including napkins. If they don’t, Aleska stocks their kitchen with ivory linen napkins, which we supply at no charge to the clients. Aleska washes them with the rest of their laundry, and it allows me to dress up their table setting beyond using paper napkins.

  Adam nods approvingly and snaps open the napkin and places it on one leg. “Aren’t you going to join me? There’s enough food here for more than one.” He gestures to an empty chair.

  My hand covers my slight laugh. “No. I don’t dine with clients. You have extra food to eat on the evenings I’m not here. The heating instructions are on the counter, along with the rest of the food and containers. Whatever you don’t finish, just put it in the fridge. I try to make this as simple as possible for everyone.”

  “So I have to eat alone.” He leans his tall frame against the back of the chair and rests an arm casually across the empty chair next to him. I can see how he’d be a good negotiator in business with his cool confidence and persistent tone.

  “Please, eat,” I say.

  He cuts into a lamb chop and takes a bite. “Excellent.” He drops his cutlery and picks up the chop with one hand, tearing into it like an animal. I can’t help laughing, and it makes him grin. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “I think I do.”

  “Not the food, which by the way is truly superb. I was referring to dinner with me.”

  “Oh.” I laugh. “You definitely aren’t shy.”

  “Never. When I’m in the city, I always have a dinner date. No one wants to eat alone. Ms. Madej, you’ve crushed my ego.”

  “Doubt it. Your ego has a really good appetite.” I resume gathering my catering bags so I can leave.

  “Look, I was kidding. Being too forward. The truth is, when I don’t have a client dinner, I usually hit the gym before grabbing a bite to eat sometime around midnight. Sometimes I get bored of my own company, so a dinner companion who isn’t a client would be nice right about now.”

  I smile and shrug.

  “But of course, I’m your client, so this would be like a client dinner for you.” He grins. “I guess I can’t win this, but at least it’s a night away from the city and a great meal that doesn’t involve my work.”

  “Is that why you bought this place? To get away from the other sharks?”

  “The other sharks? I like that. And that’s precisely the reason. I haven’t taken a vacation or time off … well, I don’t know when, but now I’m in a position to work two to three days a week away from the office.”

  He hasn’t stopped eating since he took the first bite, and I notice his plate is almost empty. “Why did you choose Hera? Why not Woodstock? Or the Hamptons, a beach home?”

  “I didn’t want a town populated with celebrities and socialites. I met Carson Blackard when I was passing through once. I liked him right away. I bought some of his furniture for my place in the city, and then I found out about this house and decided to look into buying it. Hera is a fairly short commute to the office if I leave early. I like to drive into the city around four a.m., when everyone else is still sleeping. And this house, the photos online, sold me. And it has that view.” He juts his chin toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the pastoral landscape.

  “You’re a workaholic.” I sigh, wondering if a man like him will always love the challenge of his career more than his marriage. That’s if he ever gets married.

  “I’m learning how to relax. That’s what this home is for.”

  “Working from home doesn’t sound relaxing to me.”

  “Having a nice home-cooked meal in my new, peaceful house is very relaxing. Hopefully, next time I’ll have a dinner date.”

  I look at him for an extra beat. Is he going to start bringing women here for me to feed? To serve?

  Recognizing my confusion, he smiles. “Once again, I’m referring to you. It would be nice if you’d join me sometime for dinner. Since you’re here and all.”

  “I don’t eat with the clients,” I reiterate.

  “Client? I’m a shark. We’re predators, Talia, and we’re really good at getting what we want.”

  Peyton

  FOR THE PAST TWO weeks since she started using our kitchen, Talia has been cordial with me, but pretty much keeping a safe distance from having to converse with me beyond a morning greeting.

  When we’re near each other, there’s an electrical charge between us, surrounding us, that seems to make her nervous. When I catch her looking at me, she quickly averts her eyes. I’m not blind, there’s a mutual attraction, but she seems to be trying very hard to avoid it. Why does it make me more interested in her? She’s not the type to have a casual fling to amuse me for the next few months while I’m living in this dull town. That doesn’t deter me, though.

  I’ve tried to insert myself into her daily life, which is highly uncharacteristic of me, but here I am, every morning, checking the time on my phone because I know when she bikes to Swill … and I just happen to be passing through the kitchen when she arrives.

  I get the polite hello before she gives her attention to Bash, continuing a conversation from the day before. And I look like a putz if I hover around them in an attempt to be included when I have a shitload of tasks to be completed on a tight deadline. Yeah, but that doesn’t stop me from trying, again with the fucking clock watching.

  I’m always in the kitchen when Talia is packing her delivery bags, and I always carry them outside to load them in the van. She’s appreciative, but still distant, and I don’t push it because I honestly don’t know why the hell I’m doing this or what I expect to happen with her.

  So here we are, one day before our grand opening night, and everyone insists we have to spend tonight at Carson and Jess’s home for movie night. I’ve been so busy overseeing the remodeling of the restaurant and hiring staff the last few months that I haven’t spent much social time with my new business partners or even my brother and sister.

  The timing for this party couldn’t be worse. I’m surprised they aren’t more hyped up about the opening like me. Anything can go wrong and often does with restaurants.

  The food industry is a tough business, and I feel too pumped up to settle down with a bowl of popcorn and watch a movie, but Imogene is the pushiest sister-in-law I have ever had. She’s also my favorite. I can’t say no to her. My brother is a lucky guy for landing her. I’m betting they’ll have the only marriage in my family that doesn’t end up in divorce court. Unlike me, Cooper wants to settle down, and he fou
nd the perfect partner.

  I’d consider making an actual effort to talk to Talia, who’s hanging out in the kitchen with the other women, but I remind myself that I’m not like my brother. I’m not like any of the married guys here. Talia doesn’t need me wasting her time.

  “You should socialize,” Greer says when she catches me eyeing Talia a little too long. My sister has her twin three-year-olds, Nikki and Owen, in hand. “We can’t stay for the movie. I have to get the monsters to bed.”

  “We’re not really monsters,” Nikki clarifies primly.

  “No, you’re not monsters.” I bend down and kiss them both.

  “Why don’t you go talk to the pretty chef you’re looking at?” Greer says.

  “I was thinking I should go to the restaurant.”

  “Because the employees haven’t had enough of you running them ragged? You should take a break tonight and get your rest, because there will be plenty of time tomorrow for you to act like the boss from hell. Stop worrying. I’ll see you in the morning, and everything will go perfectly tomorrow. You’ll see. You were made for this business, Peyton.” Greer kisses my cheek, then leaves with her kids.

  I don’t really want to talk to anyone tonight unless they want to commiserate with my opening-day concerns. They don’t. They all look happy to put aside work and talk about other things.

  I’m operating on less than four hours of sleep a night, and when the day-to-day problems of uncooperative appliances or contractors get to me, I take off on runs with Dylan. He needs the daily runs and rigorous workout schedule before, during, and after work hours at the Blackard Designs factory—where he’s also head of their sales division—to help manage his depression and mood swings.

  I appreciate his silence when we’re both in a foul mood and all we want to do is run it off. Dylan doesn’t pry, and when he does ask me questions, it’s more out of thoughtful curiosity than judgment. However, we’re similar enough that, when we disagree, our explosive arguments can be heard across town. At least we never hold a grudge.