by Rickie Blair
“Ms. Delaney.” He nodded and turned back to Hari. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Bhatt. Do you have a place to go? You shouldn’t be alone for at least twenty-four hours after a concussion.”
“He can stay with me,” Ruby said.
The detective turned to leave.
“Hang on a tic.” Hari pointed at the service revolver tucked into a holster under Nolan’s arm. “What kind of gun that is?”
“This? Glock nineteen.”
“Is that a good gun? For concealed carry, I mean?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“No reason. Just interested.”
The detective studied him a moment, then pursed his lips and turned to the entrance.
“Watch him,” he said to Ruby as he walked out, turning sideways to let a tall blue-eyed blonde brush past him into the room.
“Oh my God, Hari,” the new arrival said. “I went to your apartment and they told me you were here. I can’t believe it. Are you all right? And what’s this about needing a place to stay? You’ll stay with me until you’re completely recovered, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
She smiled at him and his pulse raced.
“Leta,” he said, dropping Ruby’s hand.
Chapter Sixteen
“Hello, darling,” said Dorothy, applying powder as Ruby walked into the dressing room. Dorothy glanced at the clock on the wall with a wince and then looked in the mirror at her. She dropped the powder puff.
“Oh, my dear, what happened?”
Ruby flung her purse on the vanity and flopped into the empty chair.
“Let’s just say it’s been a rough day.” She straightened up, tied her hair back and reached for her makeup. “How late am I?”
“Henry’s been in twice. He was muttering.” Dorothy winced again. “You know how he gets.”
Ruby rushed through her makeup and pulled on her dress. A rap sounded on the door and Henry walked in, glowering. She turned her back to Dorothy, who fastened her pearls as Ruby buttoned the front of her dress with shaky fingers.
“Henry, I couldn’t help it. Honestly. Someone attacked my business partner in his apartment and I’ve just come from the hospital.”
Behind her, Dorothy gasped. “Oh my darling, what an awful thing. Is Hari all right?”
“He’ll be fine, thanks. But he’s got a concussion and two cracked ribs.”
Henry shook his head as Ruby crouched to fasten her stage shoes.
“I’m sorry to hear that, of course. But you could have called. We can make changes, but not if we don’t know you’re going to be late. You’re jeopardizing the entire production.”
She stood and slipped her onstage coat and purse from the rack.
“Henry, it’s been a difficult day. Can we talk about this later?” He glared and walked out, closing the dressing room door behind him.
Dorothy helped her into the coat.
“Never mind dear, he’ll calm down. Try to put it out of your mind.”
Ruby bit her lip against the tears welling in her eyes and headed for the stage.
The play went by in a blur. As she came off after the audience’s final applause, Natalia was waiting backstage. Ruby’s shoulders sagged.
“I’m sorry, Natalia, I know that wasn’t my best.”
Natalia hugged her, patting her back consolingly.
“I’m not here to critique your acting, hon. I heard about Hari.” She stepped back, with her hands on Ruby’s shoulders, and looked into her eyes. “How are you?”
Ruby burst into tears, recalling the gunshots, her ravaged apartment, and Hari’s bandaged head.
“It was awful, Natalia. We were shot at ... and then Hari...”
Natalia glanced at the cast members who had gathered to make tsk-tsk noises and look sympathetic. She put her arm on Ruby’s shoulders and turned her around.
“Let’s go back to your dressing room.”
Ruby sat in one chair and Natalia took the other. Dorothy rapped on the door and walked in with a mug which she placed on the dressing table.
“I made you a cup of tea, darling,” she said. “You drink that. It will make you feel better.” She patted her shoulder.
Ruby picked up the mug.
“Henry’s furious with me.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Natalia said. “Now tell us what happened.”
After she recounted the day’s events, Natalia and Dorothy exchanged glances. Natalia cleared her throat.
“Ruby, you can’t go on like this. You have a job right here that requires your full attention. You can’t spend your days tracking criminals and putting your life at risk. You have to give up this sideline.”
Ruby sighed. Why must she always explain?
“It’s not a sideline. It’s important to me. Can’t you see that? I live in a world of make-believe and I need something real.”
Both women raised their eyebrows.
“What do you mean, make-believe?” Dorothy asked stiffly.
Ruby made a face. Uh-oh.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that acting was make-believe. I meant that our roles are make-believe and sometimes...” The two women stared daggers at her. She turned back to the mirror to remove her makeup. Now might be a good time to stop talking.
After another rap at the door, Henry walked in. He turned to Natalia and inclined his head to the hall. “A word?” She followed him out.
Dorothy turned to the mirror to remove her makeup.
“Dorothy, I didn’t mean—”
“I know, darling. Just leave it.” She changed into her street clothes and squeezed Ruby’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
By the time Ruby had changed out of her costume, Natalia was back. She looked solemn.
“Henry thinks it would be best if you take two weeks off. Arthur’s wife can take over your role for now.”
“What? No. I’ll be fine by tomorrow, I don’t need any time off.” Ruby headed for the door. “I have to talk to him.”
Natalia gripped her arm, holding her back from the door.
“I already tried. He’s determined. And the producers agree.”
“Then I’ll talk to the producers. They don’t understand—”
Natalia shook her head. Ruby pulled her arm away, staring at her.
“It’s only two weeks, Ruby. I think it’s a good idea, to be honest. You can regroup and think about things. Maybe even wrap up this business with Hari. Then you can come back refreshed and able to focus.”
Ruby snatched up her purse and turned to the door, fighting tears.
“I’m tired. I’m going home.”
Outside the stage door she signed autographs and smiled for selfies with fans before heading back to her apartment. Usually she enjoyed the theater district’s bustling traffic, the crowds that strolled through the streets after the evening’s performances, the music that spilled out of crowded bars and restaurants. But tonight she felt like a fraud. What if the producers didn’t take her back? She tried to recall the details of her contract. Did it have any morality clauses, or a moonlighting clause, or anything that might justify a termination? She should call her agent in the morning. Maybe Felicity could talk to the producers, make them see reason.
When she opened her apartment door, Charlie greeted her with his usual yips and gleeful pirouettes. She clipped on his leash and took him out to the street where he peed on a lamppost. Then she turned back into their building, ignoring his yanks on the leash.
“Not tonight, Charlie. I’ll take you for a proper walk tomorrow.”
Upstairs in her apartment, she gazed at the mess and sighed. Zelda had wanted to stay and tidy up after the break-in, but Ruby had insisted she go home to rest.
Charlie whined and pawed at her leg, expecting his usual post-walk treat. Ruby checked the coffee table, but the dog biscuit tin was gone. She dropped to her knees and pushed aside the slashed fabric and foam to peer under the sofa. No canister there, either. She sat up and looked helplessly around the
ransacked room.
“I can’t even find your biscuits, Charlie.” She burst into sobs.
The terrier wedged in beside her and tilted his head to study her face. He put one paw on her leg and tentatively waved his tail. Ruby smiled, wiping her eyes.
“How about a nice piece of cheese instead?”
Charlie yipped excitedly and circled her feet as she walked to the galley kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out the cheddar. Ruby cut off a small piece and threw it to him. He snapped it up before it hit the floor. As she returned the package to the fridge, her hand jostled a wine bottle. She looked at it, her eyebrows drawn. Given her history, she rarely kept alcohol in the apartment. But Zelda liked to leave late-night dinners for her, with notes about how long to warm them up. She must have intended to make a recipe today that required wine.
Ruby stared at the bottle for a moment, then shut the door and stood there, unable to look away from the closed refrigerator. After a few moments, she opened the door again and pulled out the bottle, twisted off the cap, and threw it into the sink. She took a swig from the bottle, reached for a glass, and headed down the hall to her bedroom. The hell with it. She had nowhere to go tomorrow anyway.
Setting the wine bottle and glass on the nightstand, she dropped her clothes on the floor and reached for her favorite pajamas, the ones with the big black polka dots. Charlie curled up in his basket. Ruby climbed into bed and pulled up the comforter. Maybe Natalia was right. Maybe she did need a break. How had her acting coach put it?
You can regroup.
With a snort, she poured the wine and drank half a glass. Then she reached for the remote and flicked through the channels. Tomorrow morning, ‘Ruby Danger’ would be on the case. Amateur? Ha. She’d show them amateur. She drained her glass and reached for the bottle.
Chapter Seventeen
Paris
“Maurice. Géraldine. I assure you the Castlebar Fund is perfectly safe.” Jourdain de Montagny spread his arms wide and smiled. “Parfaitement. Your concerns are unwarranted.”
In the second floor offices of Banque de Roche Noire, in Paris’s fifteenth arrondissement, a man and woman seated in upholstered armchairs exchanged uneasy glances. They turned to the gray-haired man seated in front of a magnificent rolltop desk.
“Is it possible you do not have all the facts?” the woman asked. She leaned toward Jourdain, one hand holding back a blue silk scarf at her neck. “We believe the problems originate in New York. Perhaps you are unaware—”
“Are you suggesting my partner withholds information from me? Monsieur Fulton and I are in daily communication. I know what he knows. And he assures me everything is as it should be.” He smiled. “As I said at our earlier meeting, your concerns are unwarranted.”
Géraldine glanced at her companion, who nodded. She looked again at de Montagny and shook her head. “I am sorry, but I must insist. The family wishes to withdraw their investment.” She glanced at the man seated beside her. “Maurice will make the arrangements.” Géraldine rose and her expression turned to a smile. “I hope this will not affect our friendship, Jourdain. The family expects to see you and Thérèse at our celebration next week.”
Jourdain rose to his feet and they air kissed.
“We wouldn’t miss it.” He accompanied them into the anteroom and nodded at his waiting secretary.
“Nina, the Michaud family are withdrawing their investments. Please take Maurice to the back office and walk him through the procedure so we can make the transfer first thing tomorrow morning.”
Jourdain returned to his office, shut the door, and leaned against it, momentarily unable to cross the room and return to his desk. He winced at the prospect of calling Raymond. Time enough tomorrow.
With a sigh, he pushed off from the door and walked to the fireplace. He picked up a silver-framed picture from the carved mantel, brought it back to his desk and sat, studying the faded photo. The children wore bathing suits, the women floppy straw hats, and the men khaki shorts and deck shoes. Behind them, a sprawling saltbox house perched on a hill overlooking the ocean.
That picnic in the Hamptons had been twenty years ago. He and Thérèse and their young children had made the trip to New York so the three business partners—Raymond Fulton and Edwin Gavan, and Jourdain de Montagny, who had been with them only a year—could work on their expansion plans. The women and children stayed at the Fultons’ summer home in the Hamptons and the men joined them on the weekend. The photo showed a happy group, but that wasn’t the whole truth. At their Manhattan office, the three men had bickered over their investment strategy.
Jourdain could still see Edwin’s perplexed face. ‘This is not a sustainable model,’ he had warned them. Edwin was the back-office genius who ensured the firm’s trades were handled fluidly and rapidly, the accounts were up to date, and the regulations were followed. ‘We’ll be in breach,’ he said. ‘We can’t keep doing this.’
Raymond had taken him through the numbers, explaining how the new money from Jourdain’s investors would fill any gaps. He showed him how feeder funds—money gathered from multiple investors by outside advisers—would also boost their assets.
‘What about redemptions?’ Edwin asked.
Raymond laughed.
‘Why would there be redemptions when the fund is doing so well?’
Edwin’s entreaties gradually changed to threats. The photo showed all three families together, but after the picnic Jourdain and Raymond sat on Adirondack chairs looking out over the ocean and discussed what to do about their recalcitrant partner.
‘Leave it to me. I’ll talk to him,’ Raymond said. As usual, Jourdain let him take the lead. He had done that far too often. Still, when they learned a few months later that their partner had defrauded the company, both Jourdain and Raymond were shocked.
‘I knew Mr. Gavan was unhappy with his reduced role,’ Fulton told the reporters, ‘but I never thought he would betray us like this.’ With a grim smile he added, ‘Capital Street will not let a single investor suffer because of our misplaced trust in Mr. Gavan. The missing funds will be replaced from our personal assets.’
It took every cent they had. But the incident cemented Capital Street’s reputation as one of the most trustworthy firms on Wall Street.
Jourdain returned the photo to the mantel and scanned the pictures of his wife, their children, the family apartment in the ninth arrondissement, their home in the country. In one photo, his daughter sat astride her sturdy quarter horse, Gilaberte, who had long since been retired. His daughter had two small children of her own now. Another photo showed his son, on skis with friends in St. Moritz, mugging for the camera. Jourdain picked up a photo of himself and his beautiful Thérèse on their wedding day. The world had been fresh and new then, the possibilities endless. Fatigue swept over him and he replaced the photo on the mantel.
Edwin had been right. They couldn’t go on like this.
Chapter Eighteen
Manhattan
As the first light of dawn slipped under the curtains, Leta stretched and yawned, pulled the sheet up over her chest, and turned to face her companion.
Grinning, Hari tugged the sheet back down. He ran his fingertips across the smooth mound of her stomach and traced the outline of a birthmark above her waist.
“I didn’t notice that last night.”
She laughed, pushing his hand away.
“You’re lucky. I usually charge people to look at that.”
With a smirk, he reached for her and winced at a sudden pain in his side.
Leta sat up, looking alarmed.
“What is it? Is it your ribs? We should have waited before—”
“No, no, I’m fine,” he said as he lay back, wincing again when his battered head hit the pillow. She leaned over him and his stomach tightened at the sight of her vivid blue eyes, her waist, the curve of her hip. Bloody hell. What was a concussion and two cracked ribs more or less? He reached for her again.
Leta gathered up the s
heet, wrapped it around her, and pulled away.
“Oh, no. Not until you’re better. I mean it this time.” She placed a finger on his lips.
He closed his eyes and sighed. “All right.” He opened his eyes again and looked at her. “But it’s not because I can’t. I’m a little tired…”
She caressed his cheek. “I know.”
He put his hand over hers and sat up, leaning against the headboard.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he said. “Something no one else knows.”
“You already know about my résumé.”
“I never should have mentioned—”
“I overreacted. Forget it.”
He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed her wrist, where a whiff of jasmine lingered.
“Tell me something else, then. Anything you want.”
“Shall I tell you why I lied on my résumé?”
“If you want to.”
“I was young when my parents died. I spent a few years in foster care and then I lived on the streets for a while.”
“I had no idea, I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t that bad. It was one summer and I had friends looking out for me. But they were involved in some questionable behavior and I ended up with a record. Minor stuff, theft mostly.”
“How did you go from that to—?”
“Wall Street? I spent time in juvenile hall and decided I didn’t want to waste my life that way. So I went to one of those street kid charities and signed up for courses. They seemed to think I had potential, so they arranged a scholarship. Not to Stanford, of course. I made that up.”
“Your real life story is more impressive than the one you invented.”
“Maybe. But I prefer not to think about it. And there’s more.”
He reached out a hand to smooth the wrinkles on her forehead.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
She closed her eyes and sighed as he massaged her forehead, then opened her eyes and brushed his hand away.
“Yes, I do. Because he’s back.”
