by K. A. Tucker
“I’ll call the auction houses they’ve bought through in the past,” Hans offers.
“Will they talk to you? I mean, aren’t you a competitor?”
Hans mocks my concern with a laugh. “Oh, they’ll talk to me. Anyway, I’ve already flagged it at all the big houses in the city. They know that this vase has been reported stolen to the police.”
“What’d the cops say, Maggie?” Doug asks, breaking open another peanut.
“That unless they find Celine’s fingerprints on it or the thief confesses to stealing it, it’s going to be hard to prove that it was hers.” After I stormed out of the precinct with Ruby in tow, Detective Childs was kind enough to send a police officer over to the apartment to file the necessary paperwork to report the theft.
Doug nods. “Of course. I wonder if he’d be dumb enough to exchange emails about it with someone. I’ll get Zac to try and get into FCM’s email system.”
“He knows how to do that, too?” Who exactly is this Zac guy that I’m paying a lot of money to do illegal things?
“There’s not much he can’t do. The firewalls will be tight, but it’s a big network and all you need is one person to open the wrong email.”
“What about Jace’s home computer?”
“A little tougher. Jace’d have to open an email with a backdoor program.” His feet slow, and when he turns to look at me, I see the idea taking form. “You know, you should get into Jace’s condo.”
“My B and E skills are less than stellar.” I can’t even break into a rooftop garden without getting caught.
“No B and E. Get invited. Tell him you want to know more about the market and that you might have more money to spend with him. Say . . . your advisor sent some investment plans through that you aren’t a hundred percent excited about, and you’d like Jace to look at them, for a second opinion.”
“But why would he agree to that?” I counter.
Doug dismisses my concern with a hasty wave. “Because it’s an in for him to convince you to invest more with him. Trust me, he’ll take it. And Zac’ll load up an email with some financial bullshit and a back door, and you forward it to his personal email. He’ll have to open it on his home computer.”
Doug’s grasping for straws here. “That’s the kind of thing we’d do in his office, though.”
“You’re too busy during the day. It has to be at night.”
“I don’t know if he’ll—”
“If he’s making house calls to the LES to get you to sign his papers, I’m guessing there isn’t much he won’t do to get his hands on your money.” His eyes dart over my frame. “Put one of your friend’s pretty dresses on. I’m guessing that’s been working well on him, too.”
“How do you know—” I cut myself off. I don’t want to know. “Don’t you think that’s dangerous? You know, if . . .” I let my voice trail. It’s enough that Hans thinks Jace may have stolen Celine’s vase. I don’t want him to know what I suspect about Celine’s death.
“No. If he thinks you’re there to see him, it’ll be fine. He won’t suspect a thing. Just dangle all that money in front of him and get a good look around.”
Doug’s basically sending me on a date with Jace. In his apartment, alone. I remember what happened the last time I was alone with Jace, not that I’m too worried about a repeat. “I’ll think about it.”
————
“Hey.” I glare at my reflection in the mirror. I lasted all of two hours after my conversation with Doug on the streets of Chinatown, distracting my thoughts with packing tape and bubble wrap and two boxes of rare first edition books, before dialing the personal cell number on Jace’s business card.
“Maggie? Just give me a sec—” I hear his muffled voice say to someone, “I’m sorry, just give me five minutes and I’ll be back with you. Why don’t you review this plan I’ve laid out while I’m gone.” A door clicks. “Hey. What’s up?”
“I need to bounce some investment ideas off you.”
“Really?” The surprise in his voice is unmistakable.
“Yes. I have more money to invest and I want a second opinion on my advisor’s recommendations. Can we talk about it? In person.” I practiced that line for ten minutes before picking up my phone, afraid he’d hear the duplicity in my voice otherwise.
“Okay.” He’s smiling, I can tell. “I’ll have Natasha make room for you in my calendar and you can come in—”
“I’m not getting in those elevators again.” That’s an even better excuse than simply being busy. He witnessed firsthand how crazy I got.
His chuckle tickles my ear in a way that I love, before I remember just who this guy is. “Fair enough. How about we meet over dinner? I know a great Italian place over in Chelsea.”
“How about your place. Tonight?”
There’s a long pause, and I bite my lip, afraid that even Jace Everett might find that a bit too forward. “You have a pen handy?”
————
“What am I doing, Ruby!” I pace around the boxes as the shriveled little woman sits and watches from her folding chair, the tea set steaming from its place on the brass tray. Before coming to New York City, I could count on my hand the number of times I’d had tea in the last year. Now she’s showing up at my door every afternoon—since that first visit—turning me into a habitual tea drinker. And I’m glad for it. She’s become the ear I so desperately need. “Is this insane?”
“I think it’s exciting.” Her old eyes crinkle with her smile. “Do you think he actually has the vase in his house?”
Would he be that stupid? “I have no idea. That’s what we’re hoping to find out. But I don’t know if I can do this.”
A very grandmotherly chuckle escapes her. “If you can handle all those powerful tycoons trying to weasel your money from you, you can handle one handsome fool.”
“Who may have had something to do with Celine’s death, remember.”
“Celine was a very sweet girl. Sometimes too sweet, I think.” She smiles sadly at the cup within her gnarly fingers. “Just don’t drink anything that you haven’t seen him pour or eat anything you haven’t seen him plate.”
Her warning catches me off-guard, though it’s surprisingly shrewd. “Is that the crime novelist’s official advice?”
“Just basic survival skills, my dear. Oh! Just a moment.” She’s off, heading toward her apartment.
I take that time to ransack Celine’s closet, looking for a suitable dress to wear. Something in between professional and seductive.
“Oh, that’s a smart choice,” Ruby says on her return, eying the simple black sheath with a deep V top. “Sexy but not overt. Here.” She holds out her hand. “Ambien. I use them to help me sleep. They work well for some people, and not for others, but it’s worth a shot, in case he gets too frisky and you need to tire him out. It should buy you some time to search for the vase, too. Just crush two into his wine.”
A lump forms in my throat as the cylinder of pills rolls within my grasp, my gaze veering to the bed.
“Oh, dear.” Ruby’s face falls. “I’m so sorry. I forgot. How could I forget? I didn’t mean . . . What a terrible thing for me to suggest.” She’s suddenly flustered, putting her hand against the wall to gain some support.
“It’s okay, really.” I offer her a soft smile, before I study the bottle now resting in the palm of my hand.
If Jace had something to do with Celine’s death, then he had something to do with all the drugs that were found in her body.
This isn’t nearly as terrible as that. And I don’t have to use it.
————
“The sommelier promised me that this was a good one.” I press the bottle of Bordeaux into Jace’s hands, not wanting him to see the shake in mine as I stand at his threshold, pill bottle in pocket and ulterior motives firmly in place.
“You braved the elevator.” He smiles and steps back to let me into his palatial apartment in the heart of TriBeCa. Doug already gave me the rundown of
the building—nineteenth-century, converted and fully restored. Originally purchased by Jace’s parents for investment purposes and given to him as a college graduation gift. Though, based on the kind of money I can guess he makes at his job, he could probably have afforded it anyway.
“Yeah, well . . . this one hasn’t failed me yet.” And at seventeen floors up, I didn’t have much choice. I’m already feeling faint from the rash of nerves flooding me. Am I actually going to do this?
“Dinner will be ready in an hour.” He gestures around him. “Do you want a tour?”
“Yes. I do.” It comes out like an announcement and way too serious, so I add quickly, “It’ll be nice to see what making money off of my money can afford you.”
“You know what I like about you, Maggie?” He slips Celine’s winter coat—hell, my coat, now that I’ve basically appropriated her wardrobe—off my shoulders, his fingers sliding down the length of my arms. “No bullshit.”
I follow behind him, noting that he’s exchanged his typical suit for a cashmere sweater and dress pants that hug his form. Filthy pig who pays for sex or not, he dresses well. I just don’t understand why he’d pay for it, when he has an assistant like Natasha, on her knees and waiting. “Really? I would have thought you liked the prim and proper debutante.”
“I’ve had my share of those. At this point in my life, I like a woman with a bit of fire in her.” He flashes that bright-white smile at me, dropping his gaze to my outfit for just a moment. Given the need for pockets, I rehung the sheath dress and opted for a pair of dress pants and a fitted blouse.
He leads me through a spacious living room that overlooks Manhattan’s Financial District and pushes through a frosted white door on the far side. The sound of a pot lid clattering beyond tells me that it’s the kitchen.
A lady in her mid-fifties with the same short chestnut hair and plump figure as Rosa stands at the island, peeling parsnips.
“Everything okay, Carla?” Jace asks with a chuckle.
“Sí, Mr. Everett. You scared me.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m just giving my client a quick tour. This is Maggie Sparkes,” Jace says to introduce me, settling a hand on the small of my back.
I take a deep breath and then force myself to relax into it.
Carla’s coffee-colored eyes flash to me and she nods, smiling politely.
To me, Jace says, “And this is the kitchen, which Carla uses more than I do.”
“It’s a nice kitchen,” she says and laughs, her thick accent stirring a pang in my chest for Rosa.
I float through the rest of the apartment—a substantial place with four bedrooms tastefully decorated in white linens and vibrant, oversized oil and watercolor paintings. I don’t know enough about fine art to appraise their value, but if that magazine article is true, then I’m guessing they’re worth a lot.
Jace’s bedroom is at the very back. I immediately recognize it from the picture, sans naked man wrapped in the sheets. The overall décor is modern minimalist—white walls with chrome and glass details.
And not a single piece of porcelain art in sight.
He guides me into his home office next, a traditional man cave of custom wood cabinetry and dark chocolate leather chairs, and more oil-on-canvas artwork. I immediately spot a cardboard box sitting on the shelf behind him, and my heart starts racing. Is that the same one he brought to the Bone Lady today?
I struggle not to dive for it.
“Have a seat.” He seems to be taking every opportunity he can to touch me, his hand now on my shoulder.
“What’s all this?” I force my attention away from the box and survey his desk, noticing that it’s covered in opened folders.
“You said you were considering investing more money with me.”
“No . . . Actually I said I wanted your opinion on what my advisor is recommending I do,” I correct, and quietly scold myself. I can’t be confrontational with him if this is going to work.
A small, cocky smile touches his lips. “Sure.” He hits the space bar and his screen saver clears to show a convoluted graph with a dozen different colored lines. “Let me walk you through what I can do with that money. I’ll be better, I promise.”
“You don’t even know what he’s recommending.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Doug was right. Which means I have Jace exactly where I want him. I clear my voice, trying to shift into stealth mode, afraid I’m going to somehow fuck this all up. “Fine. But we’re going to review the plans from my advisor first.” I can’t give in too easily, after all. That’s just not me.
“Sure. Where are they?” He thinks he’s already won.
“It’s all in an email. I try to go paperless as much as possible. You know, for the environment.” I glare pointedly at the stacks of printouts he obviously prepared for this meeting. Or had Natasha prepare.
He chuckles. “Of course you do.”
I pull out my phone, steady my shaky hand, my heart pounding in my stomach. “Which email address should I send it to?”
He drops into his chair, turning the monitor on. “Just send it here, so we can look at it together. It’s . . .”
I type Jace’s home address into the email that Zac prepared for me. Doug promised that this would slip past firewalls unnoticed. That I wouldn’t be standing face-to-face with Jace, trying to explain why his security system just flagged a virus.
I hit “send,” and I hold my breath.
A few awkward moments pass, and I watch his long fingers tap over the keys, his dazzling blue eyes dance over the screen.
“Yeah, I’m glad you came to me. I would never recommend these investments and here’s why . . .”
I let the sigh of relief ease out of me as quietly as possible. “Time out. Are you pouring the wine?”
Because I’m going to need lots to get through tonight.
————
“So you actually live like the locals do. Sleeping in huts for weeks at a time.”
“Sometimes months.” I devour the last bite of roasted squash. When I sat down to the table, I wasn’t sure how I’d force anything down on account of my nerves. But Carla is a superb cook. I hope he pays her well.
Jace shakes his head and frowns, pushing the remains of his steak around his plate. Our dinner conversation has been far from painful, and it’s because I’ve spent most of it talking about what I do, which helped me forget about that cardboard box in his office, which is too far away from the main powder room for me to use the excuse of a bathroom break to sneak in.
Jace actually seems interested in the business side of my world—understanding how I approve and manage micro loans made by organizations for specific projects. But he clearly still has a hard time understanding why I would ever subject myself to the human side of it. “Couldn’t you at least build something more suitable to live in?”
“I could, but I won’t. What kind of message would that send to these people? They work so hard for so little. Do you know the average villager walks five to ten miles every day to get to work and back home? And if you knew how little they get paid . . .” I shake my head. “Most of them are lucky to make a dollar a day.” I point at his plate. “That hunk of meat you’re going to throw in the trash would feed an entire family. If they ate meat. Most of the villagers I know live off of grains. And they never leave their bowls unfinished.”
His eyes drop to my plate, completely bare. “You seem to have learned a thing or two from them.”
“I have. I’m also probably going to be hospitalized for indigestion after eating this. My body isn’t used to rich meals anymore.”
He chuckles as Carla swoops in to collect the plates. “Dessert, señor?”
“We’ll wait on that.” He dismisses her with a wave. “Thank you, Carla. You can go home.”
“Sí, Mr. Everett.” She disappears into the kitchen with her arms laden.
He settles his gaze on me, and I see amusement forming. “You can’t hide much with your
expression, can you? What have I done wrong now?”
I grit my teeth. “She’s old enough to be your mother and yet you make her address you so formally.”
“I’m sure you’ve been around enough servants to know how it works.”
“She’s your employee, not your servant.” I’ve always hated that word.
“She’s a nice lady who cooks and cleans for me three times a week, and I pay her very well to do that,” he corrects. “Reminds me of the nanny I had growing up.”
“And have you not grown up yet? You’re, what, thirty-one?”
He smirks. “And don’t tell me you didn’t have your share of nannies.”
Perfect segue . . . “Only one that I remember. Her name was Rosa. She came to live with me when I was five years old, with her daughter, Celine. The one who died recently?”
I pause for a reaction. I think I catch a glimpse of something, but I could be wrong. I’m on my third glass of wine now. Not the smartest move to get tipsy, but it helped with my nerves.
“Anyway, we grew up together. And never once has Rosa called me by anything other than my first name.”
“To each their own.” If I’ve irritated Jace with my views or concerned him with my reference to Celine, he doesn’t let on. “Excuse me for a minute.” He saunters down the hall, giving me a reason to grab the last two dishes and bring them into the kitchen. I find Carla stooping in front of the dishwasher.
“Hola.”
She peers up and, smiling gently, holds her hands out for the glasses in my hand. “Gracias.”
“La cena fue maravillosa.” I smile, hoping my Spanish isn’t as rusty as I think it is. “The best meal I’ve had in a long time.” I check over my shoulder to make sure Jace isn’t standing behind me. I’m pretty sure he disappeared into the bathroom. “One of my very best friends was Mexican. Her name was Celine. Maybe she was here before?” I watch, hoping to see a glimmer of anything that looks like recognition.
“Maybe, señorita.” Carla isn’t even looking at me, as she continues her duties. Given that Carla’s only here three days a week, Celine still could easily have been in the apartment without ever having met “the help.” Or maybe Celine never did house calls with Jace. Now that I think about it, I don’t recall reading anything about Celine meeting men anywhere other than at hotels.
