Playing with Piper (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing for Love Book 3)

by Tara Crescent

  * * *

  I spend most of Saturday with Carl Marcotti, working with him on the design and layout of his new kitchen. Once we’re done, he asks if I want to grab a pint of beer at the local pub. “How about Emerson’s instead?” I ask casually. “The last time I talked to Max Emerson, he boasted that he was going to win Can You Take The Heat?. He talks a big game. I want to see if he can back it up.”

  Carl frowns with distaste. “If you insist,” he replies. “I personally don’t want to give that thug any of my money.”

  I raise my eyebrow, alerted by Carl’s tone of dislike. “I didn’t know that you knew him.”

  “I don’t. A couple of my waitresses used to work there. I hear things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Emerson has a private room in the back of his restaurant. Tammy was assigned to work it, and she hated it. The customers would grope her and she was expected to put up with it. Max more or less told her that those men were his high-rollers and if she complained, she’d get fired.”

  “High-rollers? Is Emerson running a gambling ring there?”

  Carl gives me a confused look. “I thought that’s why you decided to pass on him,” he replies. “Everyone knows Lawless and Lamb run a clean shop, and Emerson’s is dirty as shit.”

  I shake my head. “We only met Max Emerson once,” I tell him. “He was too cagey about his numbers, and Wyatt and I didn’t get a good vibe from him.” I’m cursing myself as I speak. I’ve been so busy fixing Piper’s restaurant that I’ve missed the obviously illegal activity at Emerson’s. What else have I overlooked?

  We get to the pub. Even though it’s six in the evening on Saturday and the neighborhood is packed with people enjoying the warm weather, Emerson’s is almost empty. “Max told me on the phone that this place was doing great,” I remark. “It sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.”

  Carl rubs his chin but doesn’t say anything. We settle in and order pints of beer, nachos, and chicken wings. Carl checks his phone while I look around discreetly. There’s only one waitress working the place, and she’s so surly that she makes Kimmie look friendly and welcoming. The place smells like stale beer and depression.

  Max Emerson himself is nowhere to be seen, but that doesn’t surprise me. Max doesn’t cook and he doesn’t manage the front either. He’s an absentee owner, someone who wants the rewards without doing the work. I have no respect for people like him.

  In comparison, Piper’s in her restaurant every single day, working her ass off so she can be successful. When we’re done here, Carl will go back to his restaurant and work for another five solid hours, making sure everything’s okay.

  Our food arrives. The nachos are lukewarm and the chicken wings are bland. Carl grimaces in disgust as he eats. “How did this place even get on Can You Take The Heat? I can name a dozen places that are more qualified than this one.”

  Another interesting question, and this time, I know who to ask. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to have a long chat with Maisie Hayes.

  35

  Sometimes, you have to get angry to get things done.

  Ang Lee

  Wyatt:

  Owen threatened to beat me to a pulp if I didn’t take him along when I went to see my father. I’m fairly sure he was joking, but I still knock on his door Sunday morning.

  He opens it, barely glancing up from his phone. “Have you read Maisie’s blog post today?” he asks me.

  I shake my head. I’ve been so stressed out at the thought of meeting my father that it’s completely slipped my mind that the results of the first round were going to be announced today on Maisie’s blog. “Piper made it through, didn’t she?” I demand.

  “She did.” He gives me a pointed look. “You still haven’t called her.”

  “Not yet,” I confess. “I want this mess out of the way first.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “Wyatt, do you like Piper?” he demands.

  “Of course,” I reply automatically. I don’t just like Piper. I really like her. Whenever I think of her, I smile like a silly fool. Every time I hear someone with a Southern accent, I’m reminded of her. When I see someone on the street with curly blonde hair, my heart starts to pound.

  “Then call her, because I don’t want to lose her.” He looks at me seriously. “For the last seventeen years, I’ve resisted getting involved. But I’m in love with Piper, and I think you are too.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to mess things up with her.”

  Am I in love with Piper? I ask myself that question and the answer is instantaneous. Of course I am. I’m madly, crazily, head-over-heels in love with Piper Jackson. I’m also, unfortunately, a control freak who likes to compartmentalize his life in tidy little boxes. “As soon as this situation with my dad is sorted out, I will.”

  “She’s too important to risk, Wyatt.” Owen’s voice is urgent.

  He’s absolutely right. I don’t want Piper to think I’m still angry with her. I’ve known Piper for a little over two months, and I’ve been happier than I’ve ever been in my life. The three of us have attended restaurant auctions together. We’ve painted her restaurant and chosen the dishes on her new menu. All the hours we’ve spent together in the evenings after her restaurant has closed has brought us together. I can’t imagine my life without her in it.

  “I agree.” I don’t intend to fuck this up. I care for Piper too much. “What were you saying about Maisie’s blog?”

  “I was looking at the list of winners,” he says with a frown. “Piper’s beat Soul Kitchen, no surprise there. But Emerson’s beat The Queen’s Beaver, which seems strange to me.”

  My lips twitch involuntarily. The Queen’s Beaver is a cheeky name for a British pub. “You didn’t expect that?”

  “No,” he replies. “I’ve eaten at The Queen’s Beaver before. Their chef is very concerned with local and seasonal ingredients. The food there is light years better than Emerson’s.” He gives me a troubled look. “Carl Marcotti told me yesterday that Max Emerson ran a gambling ring in the back of his restaurant.”

  I grow still at that. “Mendez put Emerson’s on the list for a reason,” I say slowly. “Max Emerson is a sleazeball, but I didn’t think he was dangerous.”

  “Someone picked Emerson’s as a contestant on Can You Take The Heat?, even though there are better choices. Max has advanced to the next round, though he shouldn’t have. None of this makes sense, and I want answers.” His voice is hard. “I need to talk to Maisie.”

  “Good idea. Let’s visit her after I deal with my father.”

  Owen seems surprised. “You’re coming too? You don’t approve of Mendez.”

  “No, I don’t,” I agree grimly. “I think he’s lying to you about Seamus Cassidy, and I don’t think the Westies are operating in Hell’s Kitchen. But if Emerson’s is in the contest, then eventually, Max Emerson will be competing against Piper. I want to know what we’re dealing with.”

  * * *

  The security guards have been instructed to escort my father upstairs. He shows up precisely at ten, and a guard brings him up to the conference room I’m waiting in. Owen’s seated at my side. On our way here, I’ve filled him in on the most recent developments. He knows my father took photos of the chaos in my mother’s house, and he’s reached the same conclusion I have.

  Embarrassing me isn’t enough. I’m about to be blackmailed.

  “Hello son.”

  His greeting sends a fresh surge of rage through me, but I take a deep breath and calm down. I know that my father is needling me deliberately. He’s trying to make me angry and throw me off my game.

  Jack Lawless notices Owen and he stiffens. Good. He expected that we’d be alone today. In this game of cat and mouse, I’m done being chased and I’m ready to be the predator. “Who’s this?” he asks, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.

  “Owen Lamb, meet Jack Lawless.” I perform introductions blandly.

  They don’t shake hands. My father takes a seat at the t
able. “I thought you’d want us to have this discussion in private.”

  “On the contrary, I’d like Owen to be part of this discussion.” I feel a faint sense of satisfaction at my father’s consternation. Let’s see how well he does when he’s off balance. He thought that I’d meet him in secret and he’d make his demands. He’s counted on my sense of shame about the way I grew up.

  He takes a deep breath and launches into his spiel. “I know you want me gone from your life, but I’m broke. If you could help me with that, I’ll leave New York, and you won’t hear from me again.”

  “How much?” From the start, I knew this was about dollars and cents. The Wall Street Journal article had spoken admiringly of our financial successes, and my father had thought he could make some easy money.

  My bluntness takes him by surprise. “Three million.”

  At my side, Owen stiffens with outrage. “You’re fucking insane,” he snaps.

  I hold up my hand. “What’s the ‘or else?’”

  “What do you mean?” my father blusters.

  I meet his gaze squarely. “Let’s lay our cards on the table. You’re trying to blackmail me for three million dollars. Why do you think I’m going to agree to your demands?”

  Is he going to mention the photos?

  He does. “If you don’t,” he says, “I will sell photos of your mother’s house to the tabloids. The entire world will know that Wyatt Lawless’ mother lives in squalor. Everyone will whisper and talk.” He sneers at me. “I don’t think you’re ready for that, Wyatt.”

  Owen’s hands clench into fists.

  When I hear the threat, my heart breaks. A small, stupid part of me had hoped that it wouldn’t come down to this. But to Jack Lawless, I’m nothing more than a walking wallet.

  “I don’t have ready access to that kind of cash,” I reply, lying without a twinge of guilt. “My money is tied up in investments. It’ll take me a few weeks to free it up.”

  “How long?” Greed is making my father stupid. He doesn’t stop to think that I might be bluffing.

  “Three weeks.” I want Piper to win Can You Take The Heat? before I see my father again. We promised her we’d be there for her and I intend to keep my word.

  “I can’t wait that long,” he argues.

  I get to my feet. “That’s the offer,” I say flatly. “Take it or leave it.”

  He gives me an assessing look. Perhaps he’s trying to figure out how much he can push me. After a long pause, he gives in. “Okay. I’ll meet you here in three weeks.”

  “There’s a condition.” Owen cuts in, his voice hard. “If you try and contact Wyatt before then, the deal’s off.”

  My father opens his mouth to protest, then thinks better of it. He nods tersely, rises to his feet and leaves the room.

  Jack Lawless thinks I’m going to pay him.

  I’m not.

  What I need is a plan.

  I’ve bought myself some space. This is a chess game, and I have twenty-one days to figure out my next move.

  * * *

  Owen:

  “What are you going to do?” I ask Wyatt as we head to Maisie’s apartment.

  “I don’t know.” He walks forward, his hands in his pockets. “My father hasn’t apologized for abandoning me. He hasn’t once said he was wrong to walk out on a thirteen year old child. All he cares about is himself.” He shakes his head, looking frustrated. “If it were just me, I’d tell him to go to hell. But I have to think about my mother. She’s spent her entire life trying to hide her illness from her friends and her co-workers. How is she going to feel when her house is being mocked in the tabloids?”

  I’m surprised that Wyatt cares about his mother’s reaction. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s barely mentioned her. They only see each other a handful of times a year and Wyatt always returns from these meetings tense and angry. “So you’re going to pay him off?”

  “Two impossible choices,” he mutters. “I need to find a third one.”

  “Can Stone Bradley help?”

  He shakes his head. “Stone won’t do anything illegal.”

  “Will you?”

  His lips twist. “I’d prefer to stay within the law. We’ve built a successful business over the years, you and me. We have restaurants that depend on us. I’d hate to risk all of that for my father.”

  We walk the rest of the way in silence. When we reach Maisie’s building, Wyatt presses the buzzer.

  “Hello?” Maisie’s voice sounds from the speaker, tinny and crackly.

  “Maisie, it’s Wyatt and Owen. Can we chat with you for a minute?”

  She sounds surprised to hear from us. “Umm, sure. Come on up.”

  She buzzes us in and we make our way up to her apartment. Maisie’s standing in the doorway, waiting for us. “This is unexpected,” she says, surveying us with narrowed eyes. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I want to talk to you about Emerson’s,” I reply.

  “Oh boy.” She steps aside. “You better come in.” We follow her inside, and she waves to the couch. “You guys want a cup of coffee or something?”

  We both decline. “What do you want to know?” she asks.

  “I read your article this morning,” I tell her bluntly. “I also ate at Emerson’s last night. How did it make it into the contest, and how on earth did it beat The Queen’s Beaver?”

  “The first question is easy to answer,” she says, flopping into an overstuffed armchair. “There were sixteen restaurants in the contest. I picked eight. Yelp, as one of the sponsors, chose four, and the Hell’s Kitchen Business Association, as the other sponsor, chose four more. Yelp was transparent in their selection process; they put up a poll on their website, and the four restaurants with the most votes were chosen. The association wasn’t. John Page gave me four names with no explanation on how they were picked. Emerson’s was one of them.”

  Interesting. “How did it advance to the next round?”

  “That,” Maisie sighs, “I can’t explain. I eat at The Queen’s Beaver all the time, and I love the food there. But when we showed up on Friday to judge them, the kitchen was off its game so badly it was unrecognizable. There’s no explaining it.” She grimaces. “They might have still made it through, but Emerson’s won the public vote by a landslide.”

  “What?” The contest has been designed quite carefully to make sure the only people that can vote on a restaurant are the people that eat there during the week. At Piper’s, we’ve been given a stack of comment cards to hand out to our patrons, each with a unique identifier to prevent fraud. “Emerson’s was nearly empty last night.”

  She nods dourly. “They’ve got to be cheating.”

  “Aren’t you going to do anything about it?” Wyatt demands in outrage.

  “What do you want me to do?” she snaps, giving us an irritated look. “Do you expect me to stand outside Emerson’s, counting the number of guests each night, and making sure only the diners get a comment card?” She shrugs. “It sucks for The Queen’s Beaver. However, in the final round, there’s no popularity contest. The winner will be decided by the four judges and no one else.”

  Wyatt frowns at Maisie. “You’re awfully calm for someone whose contest is being fucked with,” he growls.

  “You should have seen me last night,” she retorts. “There was screaming.”

  * * *

  “It doesn’t add up,” I tell Wyatt as we head back to our offices. “Why did The Queen’s Beaver screw up? Greg Tennant has thirty years of experience. Maisie’s contest isn’t going to throw him off his game.”

  Wyatt glances at his watch. “Let’s go ask him,” he suggests. “And I want to call Piper after that.”

  “That’s good,” I tell him with a smirk.

  “Shut up,” he grumbles, but a smile plays about on his lips. He raises his hand for a cab and we make our way to Hell’s Kitchen. With any luck, we’ll talk to Greg, then head back home in time to cook Piper a nice meal.

 
; When we get to The Queen’s Beaver, everything’s oddly quiet. The restaurant is busy, but the waitresses, normally cheerful, are walking around in hushed silence. Something’s the matter.

  We take a seat at the bar and Wyatt pulls a business card out of his wallet. “Is Chef Tennant working today?” he asks the bartender, handing her his card. “If he is, could you tell him I’d love to see him?”

  She barely looks up. “The chef is extremely busy this morning.”

  “We’re old friends.” I give her my best persuasive smile. “We only need a minute.”

  “Fine.” Reluctance drips from every syllable. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  In about three minutes, Greg Tennant appears, wiping his hands on his apron. When he sees us, he gives us a strained smile. “Wyatt Lawless and Owen Lamb. I’m honored.”

  Greg and I had lunch together only a few weeks ago. He looks tired this morning, a lot greyer than the last time I saw him. Something’s going on and I’m determined to get at the root of the matter. “Greg, can we talk to you in private?”

  “Let’s go to my office.”

  Greg’s office is tiny. The two of us squeeze in and take a seat. I eye the piles of paperwork threatening to overflow the battered wooden desk with amusement, but at my side, Wyatt flinches in discomfort. The place probably reminds him of his mother’s home, and after this morning, he’s especially vulnerable to chaos.

  As soon as the door shuts behind us, Greg opens his mouth. “What’d you guys want to talk about?” he asks bluntly. “Forgive me for hurrying you, but I was on my way to the hospital.”

  “The hospital?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Can you guys keep something quiet?” he asks. “Max Emerson came to my kitchen last week and told me to throw Maisie Hayes’ contest.”

  “What?” I lean forward, shocked.

  He nods. “Of course, I told him to fuck off. As if I’m going to let a punk like Emerson tell me what to do. Then on Friday night, hours before the judges showed up, some guy ran a red light and t-boned my wife’s car.”