Straight from the Hart

by Tracie Banister

  “Hi, Jax!” The brunette, who’s smiling so hard her collagen-filled lips look like they might burst, gives him a wave and titters. “I remember reading in your Rolling Stone interview that you love a hard seltzer, so I brought you one. It’s mango-flavored.” She sets down the silver can and a frosty glass. “I can pour it for you if you want.”

  “Ugh, Taryn, get lost! You know this isn’t your table.” A male server with a brush up hairstyle and a whole lot of attitude shoves her out of the way, and she trudges off with a pout.

  “Please excuse my colleague’s unprofessionalism, Mr. Reid. You look stressed. Would you like me to give you a hand massage while you’re reviewing the menu? I am trained in reflexology.”

  “Thanks, man, but I’m good.” Jax lets the overeager server down easy. “What I could really use right now is some food. The grilled cheese on brioche with tomato bisque sounds bomb—”

  “Your press tour for New Frisco starts soon,” Alex reminds him.

  Jax raises an eyebrow. “So you’re saying I should take it easy on the carbs and fat?”

  “I can’t kill every press photo you think you have a double chin in.”

  Jax exhales loudly in defeat. “Fine. Give me the beet salad. No cheese, and go easy on the vinaigrette.” He hands his menu to the server.

  Alex and I place our orders, but the server is so busy staring at Jax he doesn’t even write them down. Lord only knows what food we’re going to end up with.

  Once the three of us are alone, Jax’s eyes slide from me to Alex and back again. “You two look grim. What’s going on?” he wonders, popping open his can of tropical fruit-flavored seltzer.

  Clasping his hands together on the table, Alex says, “Some new information has come to light that we’d like to share with you, but first, I need you to promise you won’t flip out.”

  “Pfffft,” Jax scoffs as he transfers his drink from the can to the glass. “I don’t flip out. I’m zen AF. I even meditated this morning with an app I downloaded. For a few minutes anyway, then I conked out because the yogi dude who was guiding me through it had such a soothing voice. So go ahead and tell me whatever it is. I can handle it.” He gulps down half of his spiked seltzer.

  Alex glances over at me, which is my cue to speak.

  “I’ve been suspicious of Jaz’s manager since the first time I saw him interacting with her at The Rooftop.”

  “Suspicious of what?” Jax looks baffled. “Do you think he’s stealing from Jaz?”

  “No, from you. It’s my belief that Nick Delucca has been harboring romantic feelings for Jaz for some time and since the scandal broke, he’s been working to undermine your marriage so that he can have her all to himself.”

  Jax continues to look confused. “Undermine how?”

  “He’s been in her ear, badmouthing you, which Alex and I heard for ourselves that day at lunch. And according to Jaz’s assistant . . .” I pause to ask Alex, “Have you gotten any new intel from Aimee today?”

  He shakes his head, frowning so hard that a divot appears between his brows. “She said Delucca’s been texting up a storm all morning and acting furtive about it, but she hasn’t been able to get a name for us yet.”

  While that is seriously disappointing, I have faith that Delucca will slip up and Aimee will be able to get the info we need.

  Turning back to Jax, I say, “Aimee’s been keeping an eye on Delucca for us and he’s been glued to Jaz’s side since she threw you out and he’s been doing everything he can to ingratiate himself to her. He was the one who gave Jaz the dog, which I suspected and Aimee confirmed, and that’s just the latest of the presents he’s been surprising her with to ‘lift her spirits,’” I quote Jaz’s Instagram post about her new furbaby. “At first, I thought he was simply taking advantage of an opportunity that fell in his lap, but after what I witnessed last night, it appears he’s had a much bigger hand in how things have played out than I could have ever imagined.”

  “What happened last night? I thought you went to some party to collect an award.”

  “I did,” I reply as I pull my phone out of my purse, “and Delucca managed to tear himself away from Jaz long enough to escort another client of his to the ceremony. After the awards were handed out, I took a trip to the ladies’ room and on my way back, I happened to see Delucca dragging a woman outside to the gardens. I followed the two of them and recorded this.” I tap on the display screen where I have the incriminating video waiting, then hand Jax the phone and press play.

  Squinting his eyes at the screen, he says, “Wait, is that . . .” He enlarges the faces on the video and exclaims, “Holy shit! Nick and Georgina know each other? How is that even—”

  “Keep watching,” I instruct, and he does. When he’s finished, I fill him in on the mysterious call Delucca made after his altercation with the woman who’s been making Jax and Jaz’s lives so miserable. “I think Delucca’s been coaching her through this, telling her how to make the most out of the scandal.”

  With a nod, Alex says, “Her coming to LA right after the story hit and playing the victim on Late Night—those were moves someone who knew what they were doing orchestrated and I should know because I’ve advised clients to do similar things when dealing with bad press. Georgina is still C-list, even in the UK, which means she has no team here to give her the lay of the land or hook her up. I have no doubt she welcomed Delucca’s assistance.”

  “That bastard!” Jax smacks both hands on the table so hard our silverware jumps, then makes a clattering sound when it falls back down. “I’m going to kill him,” he seethes.

  Nervous about the attention Jax’s outburst has garnered from the other diners who are now gawking at us, I say, “No, you’re not,” and place a calming hand atop his, which is now clenched in a fist. “You’re going to discredit him in Jaz’s eyes, which will be a far worse fate for Delucca.”

  “Good, yeah. Let’s do that now. I think Jaz is at work on Love Hacks. We’ll show her this . . .” He holds up my phone. “. . . and tell her what a slimeball the man she trusts so much is.”

  “We don’t have enough,” claims Alex, ever the voice of reason. “That video raises plenty of questions, but Vanessa and I agree that Delucca would probably be able to talk himself out of it, and Jaz is more inclined to believe him than any of us right now. But don’t worry, we’ll get what we need to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Delucca is guilty as sin. If all else fails, I can lean on Georgina. She has no loyalty to anyone but herself and she might know who the puppet master is.”

  “This is such a nightmare!” Jax buries his face in his hands with an anguished moan.

  “It’ll be over soon,” I assure him. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this and take down all the bad guys in one fell swoop.”

  Lifting his head, Jax takes a deep breath and exhales, and I imagine he’s trying to center himself, which means he got something out of that meditation app after all.

  “Thanks, Red. For real. I know a lot of what you’ve done for me isn’t in your job description and I appreciate you going the extra mile and always being there to talk me off the cliff. I don’t think I’ve ever had a female friend before, not one whose pants I wasn’t trying to get into or vice versa, but I feel like that’s what you’ve become to me.”

  “Same.” I give his forearm a squeeze, feeling incredibly touched and a bit misty-eyed by his confession. “I’m still sending you a bill, though. Disguises cost money and my pedicure got messed up when I was tiptoeing through that garden doing surveillance last night.”

  That gets a chuckle out of him, and I’m glad to have lightened the mood a bit. Our stylishly coiffed server arrives with our lunch and surprise, surprise, he screwed up everyone’s order except his crush’s, bringing me a club sandwich instead of a turkey wrap and Alex a salmon poke bowl in lieu of grilled salmon with lemon oil. He doesn’t even stick around to ask if we’re okay with our food because he notices Jax’s half-empty glass and runs off to get him another se
ltzer. I’m left to gape at my plate in horror because there’s a jumbo-sized dill pickle spear positioned between the sandwich halves, and it’s touching the bread!

  “Let’s switch,” Alex says, sliding his bowl over and taking my plate back to his side of the table where I don’t have to think about the slimy, briny grossness of that pickle.

  “Thanks.” I offer Alex a grateful half-smile because it’s impossible to stay mad at him when he sweeps in like my own personal superhero to save me from my archnemesis, the revolting pickle. Kind of ironic too, since that dill pickle spear was a garnish and Alex likening Ian to a garnish earlier is what kicked off our argument.

  Picking up the paper sleeve perched on the edge of the poke bowl, I extract the chopsticks inside it and use them to pick up a diced cube of salmon that’s been dressed with soy sauce, rice vinegar, and sesame oil.

  Jax looks less thrilled about his kale salad, which he’s stabbing irritably with his fork, but not actually eating. Alex opens his mouth wide so that he can take a bite of the triple-decker club sandwich he inherited from me when a muffled ringtone emanates from inside his jacket. He sets the sandwich back down, wipes off his fingers on his napkin, and pulls out the phone, consulting the Caller ID. “It’s Aimee,” he tells us, and Jax and I immediately drop our utensils so that we can focus on the phone call.

  “Hey,” Alex answers. “What’s up? No, it’s fine. Go ahead.” He presses his lips together and squinches his eyes while listening to her tale, occasionally interjecting an uh huh or okay, which doesn’t give those of us who can’t hear the other side of the conversation much to go on.

  “Sounds like it. I don’t have a clue either.” Alex expels a weary sigh. “But it’s more than we had before, so good work. Yeah, definitely. I’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

  “Well?” Jax and I both ask the second Alex hangs up.

  “Delucca snuck off to make a call, so Aimee followed him and eavesdropped. He was talking about Georgina with someone, saying what a loose cannon she is and how they needed to keep her quiet.”

  “The puppet master,” I deduce as I scoop up a piece of avocado with my chopsticks.

  “Clearly, and Delucca was not happy with her. He said that this was all her dumb idea, and he was going to take her down with him if it blew up in his face.”

  “Her?” I gasp the word in shock, accidentally sucking down the avocado without chewing first, which makes me choke. Jax has to hand me my glass of Perrier so that I can wash it down.

  Once I’ve caught my breath and can speak again, I say, “The puppet master is a woman! Is Aimee sure about this?”

  “She heard Delucca call the person by name twice. It’s not a name I recognize though, so I don’t know how much help this info’s going to be.” Twisting his head to the side, Alex asks Jax, “Does the name Quinn mean anything to you?”

  The piece of salmon that was halfway to my mouth slips from the chopsticks and falls back into the bowl. “Did you just say, ‘Quinn?’” I query incredulously. “Quinn is the one aiding Delucca in keeping Jax and Jaz apart? She’s the puppet master?”

  “Yeah. Why? Do you know a Quinn, and if so, why she’d be involved in all this?”

  “Oh, I know a Quinn.”

  I was wrong. Pickles aren’t my archnemesis, this career homewrecker is. She stole Ezekiel from his wife, making a mockery of Straight from the Hart in the process, then she poached my clients and disparaged the way I do business. She is the total antithesis of what a romance concierge should be, and I will be damned if I let her split up another couple who belongs together. Although I’m raging on the inside, I calmly set down my chopsticks, put on my sunglasses, and stand, not caring when my napkin slides from my lap to the floor.

  “Gentlemen,” I address Jax and Alex who are twinning with the same befuddled expression on their faces, “if you’ll excuse me, I have an unscrupulous ex-employee’s butt to kick.”

  Scooping my phone off the table, I tap the display screen a couple of times, then bring the device up to my ear as I stride off with one goal in mind. “Cole, I need you to drop whatever you’re doing and get me an address.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “Hmmmm,” is my estimation of the two-story, modern home situated on a corner lot in the heart of the popular Echo Park neighborhood. It’s not a new house, but I can tell it’s been recently renovated because its horizontal, cedar plank privacy fence and the color of its stucco (charcoal gray) are both very on trend. The prime location of this house—within walking distance of Sunset Boulevard where there’s a great variety of shops, restaurants, and nightclubs—means it cost a small fortune, which is okay since that’s exactly what the owner has.

  I have to go around to the side of the house to find an entry point, which is a gate leading into a patio. In marked contrast to the austere exterior of the home, the patio has some whimsical charm. There’s a wood picnic table with black wrought iron legs along with matching benches sitting atop a black-and-white diamond-patterned rug and small, primary-colored pots filled with greenery are mounted on the concrete wall behind the table. The pleasing scents of mint, basil, and lemon tell me that the pots are filled with herbs, and I wonder if the owner likes to cook, or if he uses these aromatic plants to make product for his business.

  When I reach the front door, which is black and very basic in design, I lay on the doorbell much longer than is necessary or polite because I want to be sure I roust the people inside. Impatiently, I tap my foot while I wait for someone to answer. When that doesn’t happen quickly enough for me, I stab the doorbell repeatedly with my index finger, letting the inhabitants know that like Glenn Close’s character in Fatal Attraction, I will not be ignored!

  “Okay, okay,” I hear a male voice grumbling, so I stop abusing the doorbell.

  The door is unlocked and flung open, and I’m met with the sight of a bearded man wearing ripped skinny jeans and a crumpled-looking red plaid flannel thrown over a tank top that was most likely white at one time, but now has a yellow tinge to it. His hair is mussed, his pupils are dilated, his face is flushed and sweaty, and he’s breathing hard, so he was clearly in the middle of something when I showed up.

  “Vanessa?” His shocked expression makes him look like a naughty schoolboy who got caught with his hand, and who knows what else, in the cookie jar.

  “Hello, Ezekiel. I need to speak with Quinn.”

  “Uh, well . . .” He glances back over his shoulder nervously. “She’s not—”

  “Is that my Hungarian goose down comforter from Goop?” I hear my former employee screech. “I paid for next-day shipping, so if it hasn’t shown up by four, Gwyneth Paltrow can give me a fuckin’ refund!”

  “Oh, good. She’s here,” I say sunnily and barge right past Ezekiel into the house’s kitchen? What a strange floor plan!

  “Hey—,” he attempts to protest.

  “Your fly’s open,” I toss back over my shoulder. Hopefully, fumbling with his zipper will keep Ezekiel occupied long enough for me to hunt down my quarry.

  I pass through the kitchen, which is outfitted with stainless steel appliances, white cabinets, white quartz countertops with gray veining, and a subway-tiled backsplash in charcoal gray. My heels click against the high-quality hardwood floor as I continue on through a formal dining room with a glass table that seats six, then enter a large living area where I see Quinn. Sporting black yoga capris and a cheetah print sports bra that barely contains her newly enhanced breasts, she’s lounging on a luxurious, but comfortable-looking, pewter gray sofa, with her bare feet propped up, flipping through the latest issue of In Touch, which coincidentally has the Js on the cover.

  “I hate to interrupt you in the middle of what’s obviously a very busy work day.” The sound of my voice makes Quinn glance up, and I see that her dark lipstick is smeared all around her mouth. Ezekiel answered the door with no lip prints on his face or neck, so I can only conclude that Quinn was in the process of leaving her wine-colored mark on a part
of his body much lower down when I arrived. Lovely.

  “What do you want?” she asks in a so-bored tone of voice.

  “To talk to you about your involvement in the Jax/Jaz/Georgina scandal.” I flutter a hand at her magazine.

  “What involvement?” Ezekiel wonders as he steps into the room, trying to tame his disheveled hair by smoothing his hands over it.

  Instead of answering his question, Quinn says, “You’re still covering for Billy at the taproom tonight, aren’t you? It opens in twenty.”

  “Crap!” Ezekiel snatches his phone off the coffee table and checks the time. “You’re right. I need to get out of here . . . as long as everything’s okay with you two . . .” His hazel eyes slide from Quinn’s face to mine and back again.

  I’m tempted to tell Zekey to stay so that I can give him an earful of what his girlfriend’s been up to, but chances are she’ll be more forthright without him around.

  “It’s all good, babe,” Quinn assures him, getting up off the couch and sashaying over to him in her skintight Lycra. Grabbing his face with both hands, she pulls his head down so that she can give him a long, sloppy, openmouthed kiss that elicits a groan from him and an eye roll from me. I already know she got Ezekiel with sex and that’s how she’s holding on to him too, so this display really isn’t necessary.

  After his mouth has been thoroughly mauled and Quinn finally lets him come up for air, Ezekiel looks dazed, confused, and more than a little bit turned on.

  “Maybe I’ll drop by Thorne’s later and we can have some fun in the supply room,” she teases with a coy smile and a squeeze of his butt cheek.

  Quinn’s victim/boyfriend stumbles away from her in a lust-induced trance. “Nice seeing you . . .” The poor man can’t even remember my name on his way out.

  After we hear the front door close, Quinn saunters over to me with a smug smile on her face. “Why are you here again?” she inquires even though she knows damn well what the reason for my visit is.