by Cat Schield
Vance’s words boosted Elizabeth’s confidence out of the basement.
“Thank you.”
Sabeen wore a triumphant expression as she took Roark’s seat. Elizabeth let her have the battle. The younger woman waged a pointless war. As soon as the takeover of Waverly’s was no longer a threat, Elizabeth and Roark would part ways, and he would return to his adventures. She wasn’t Sabeen’s competition. The world of antiquities procurement was.
While Sabeen drank glass after glass of wine and bubbled about a gallery opening she’d attended and a cat fight she’d glimpsed between two well-known socialites, Elizabeth nibbled at her salmon and willed the evening to be over.
The waiter was clearing her untouched dessert when she tuned back into what Sabeen was saying.
“And when he explained to me why he and Elizabeth had gotten engaged after knowing each other about a day, of course I forgave him.”
Elizabeth’s blood crystalized in her veins as Sabeen’s words sunk in. The rest of the table seemed equally stunned as they stared her way.
“What exactly did he say?” Ann directed the question at Sabeen, but it was Elizabeth who took the brunt of her displeasure.
“That they’d gotten engaged because of the Waverly’s takeover threat. One of your board members promised his support against the sale if Roark could prove he’d settled down enough to be an asset to Waverly’s instead of a liability.”
“Is this true?” Ann demanded.
Elizabeth was saved from answering by the head of the food pantry stepping to the podium to introduce Ann. Grateful for the minor reprieve, Elizabeth joined the clapping as Ann stood. Elizabeth went cold at the way Ann was staring at her from the raised platform. “You had no right to break Roark’s confidence,” Elizabeth said.
Sabeen tossed her head like a spoiled child. “How was I supposed to know he hadn’t told these people? What’s the big deal, anyway? He’s doing it for them.”
“And what if others heard you?” As soon as the words were out, Elizabeth could tell there was no reasoning with Sabeen.
“No one heard. You’re just mad because you can’t pretend Roark loves you anymore.”
“Do you honestly think I have any illusions about my relationship with Roark? I’m not some foolish child who imagines that I can manipulate him into loving me by destroying everything else in his life that matters to him.”
The tightness in her chest made her heart work hard for each beat. Her chair was too close to the table. The crowd of six hundred attendees sucked the oxygen from the room. Sweat broke out on her skin.
Ann’s strong voice became a roar in her ears as Elizabeth noticed a woman at the next table wasn’t paying attention to the speech, but was staring her way. Had she overheard Sabeen?
Anxiety crawled across Elizabeth’s skin. If Roark had been here they could have faced down the gossip together. He’d have kissed her passionately in front of everyone and shut down the rumors that they weren’t really engaged. Alone, Elizabeth couldn’t rally the conviction to deny Sabeen’s claim. All she could do was sit and try to keep her panic from showing.
But that took all her energy and by the time Ann’s speech concluded, Elizabeth was completely drained.
She turned to Vance. “I need to go.” She pushed back from the table and stood.
Vance got to his feet as well and put a gentle hand on her arm. “Charlie and I will take you home.”
“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Please stay. I will be fine.”
Without a word to Sabeen, she headed for the exit, weaving her way between the tables. Her hands shook as she reclaimed her coat and slipped into it. The cold November air bit deep into her bones as she stepped onto the sidewalk. On the way back to her apartment her shivers grew in intensity despite the heat blowing from the taxi’s air vents. By the time she’d stripped off her finery and crawled between the sheets she was convinced she’d never feel warm again.
* * *
The harsh midday sun bounced off the pitted pavement and stabbed at Roark’s tired, dry eyes. He’d chosen a small round table by the window. A cup of coffee sat untouched near his elbow. Roark swiped at the sweat gathering on his forehead and scanned the traffic passing the café’s open door.
Worry rubbed Roark’s already short temper into something nasty. Smith was late. That wouldn’t happen unless something was wrong. The ex-military man had an uncanny sense of time. Halfway through their first tour together, Roark had labeled him a walking timepiece.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Roark’s first thought was that Elizabeth had responded to one of his texts. He’d sent her several since arriving in Cairo, asking how her evening had gone. Her reply had been nonexistent. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
At first he’d assumed Elizabeth was still mad at him for taking off so unexpectedly and at a time when she most needed his support, but then Vance had filled him in about what had happened at the gala with Sabeen.
His gut clenched. The first thing he intended to do after returning to New York was show Sabeen what happened to someone who crossed him. After that, he was going to apologize to Elizabeth and kiss her senseless. Providing of course, that she was willing to see him.
Slipping the cell out, he checked the message.
Outside
Cryptic bastard. The text was from Smith, not Elizabeth. Disappointment sliced razor sharp. He reminded himself that it was a little after noon in Cairo, 5:00 a.m. in New York. Elizabeth probably wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours.
Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Roark headed for the exit. Had he really expected that she’d be quick to forgive him after facing the exposure of their masquerade all by herself? Granted, Sabeen had only told Roark’s family and Ann Richardson. The story wouldn’t spread beyond them, but Ann couldn’t have taken the news well. And Elizabeth shouldn’t have had to face everyone alone.
Roark stepped from the café and spotted Smith leaning against the passenger door of a rusty brown Toyota, enormous biceps crossed over a powerful chest.
The six-foot-four-inch former marine pushed away from the car as Roark neared. “Get in.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
Another thing about Smith was his brevity. The man rarely strung more than four words together at a time. While Smith negotiated the Cairo traffic, Roark sent Elizabeth another text.
“Trouble?” Smith inquired.
Roark put the phone away. “Yeah.”
“What kind?”
“Female.”
Smith grunted. “Not like you.”
“This one’s different.”
Smith let one raised eyebrow speak for him.
“She’s doing me a favor and it landed her in some hot water.”
“Sleeping with her?”
This time it was Roark who let his expression do the talking.
Smith’s thin lips twitched. “Idiot.”
“Shut up.”
And that was last the two men spoke until Smith popped the car trunk. “Got Masler’s fence.”
They were alone in an empty warehouse on the outskirts of Old Cairo. The building was practically falling down around them, but for whatever Smith had in mind, this was the perfect location.
“Does he know where Masler is?”
“Let’s find out.”
The two men pulled the terrified Egyptian out of the trunk and set him on his feet, keeping a hold on his arms as he swayed unsteadily. Beneath his olive complexion, the man was green. Roark understood why. Smith’s driving through Cairo involved short bursts of acceleration, followed by hard braking and frequent lane changes. The fence had probably gotten pretty scrambled. Roark only hoped the guy retained enough of his faculties to assist them.
“I’m not telling you anything,” the fence declared after Smith shoved him into a chair.
Roark had just finished securing their captive’s legs and arms when a plain black car entered the warehouse. Ad
renaline spiking, Roark cursed the intrusion, but Smith’s only reaction was to shoot the vehicle a look of disgust. Vigilance easing, Roark slid the hunting knife with its six-inch blade back into its sheath inside his boot.
“You’re late,” Smith said to the man approaching them.
He was about a head shorter than Smith and wore a navy windbreaker emblazoned with an Interpol emblem. “You said one o’clock. It’s five after.”
Smith grunted a reply and handed a camera to Roark, and a beer to the Interpol agent. Before the fence knew what they were about, the Interpol agent goosed him in the ribs, producing a somewhat lively expression and Roark caught the two men in a celebratory moment. After a quick check to make sure he’d gotten the shot they needed, he handed the camera off to Smith who uploaded the photo on to his laptop.
“Nice,” Smith remarked and tossed a fat envelope toward the agent. “Thanks.”
Without checking its contents, the man from Interpol pocketed the envelope. “Call me when you track down Masler.”
“Will do.”
Roark stared at the fence while Smith clicked away on the computer. It took a lot of willpower not to grin at the terrified Egyptian. “My friend here is uploading that photo of you and an Interpol agent even as we speak.” He glanced toward Smith. “Where are you posting it?”
“His Facebook page.”
The man’s dark eyes showed white all around. “I don’t have a Facebook page.”
“You do now. I’m sure Masler is going to be very unhappy to see you being so chummy with your new Interpol buddy. Not to mention how the rest of your clients will react.”
“It will ruin me.”
“It will get you killed.”
“Or worse,” Smith added as Roark watched the man’s composure fragment.
“Yes, killed.” The fence nodded vigorously, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “They will kill me. You cannot do this.”
“Maybe you should tweet about it while you’re at it. Hashtag snitch.” Keeping his gaze glued on the fence, Roark tossed the suggestion over his shoulder. “I’ve heard Masler follows Interpol.”
Obviously it never occurred to the panicky fence that someone in Masler’s business stayed miles away from any sort of social networking. His gaze bounced between Smith and Roark, agitation growing by the second.
“Stop,” the fence cried, clearly at the end of his rope. “I’ll tell you how to find Masler.”
Smith stopped typing and stared at the man in the chair, his finger hovering over the laptop. “Speak.”
An hour later, Smith and Roark dumped the man a mile from his home and then drove to Roark’s hotel.
Inside the hotel room, Roark asked over a passable single malt, “Think he’ll warn Masler we’re on to him?”
Smith tossed his back in one swallow and poured a second. “Doubtful.”
That meant he could set a trap for Masler and bait it with something the thief would find irresistible like the second leopard statue. Smith finished his second shot with the same efficiency as the first and headed toward the door.
“Thanks for your help on this,” Roark called after him. “And let me know when you locate Darius.”
“Will do.” Smith paused halfway out the door and turned back. “This girl, she good for you?”
Smith’s question caught Roark off guard. His first impulse was to toss off a careless answer, but after what his buddy had done for him both today and in the past, Roark decided he owed him better than that.
“Very good.”
“Love her?”
“Don’t know.”
Smith shook his head. “Idiot.”
“Yeah.” Roark sighed as the door closed on his friend. “Damn straight.”
Ten
Elizabeth’s hand hovered over the pint of ice cream in her freezer. At seven in the morning, it was too early for her to get started, but today’s Page Six article gave her a solid excuse to indulge in Cherry Garcia.
Her first phone call this morning had come from Allison, warning her that Sabeen’s indiscretion last night had indeed been overheard. That call had been followed by one from Charlotte and three from Josie. Elizabeth had let those calls go to voice mail. After speaking to Allison, she’d been unable to face anyone else.
Shutting the freezer door before she surrendered to self-destructive eating, she took her phone back to bed. Curled beneath the warm comforter, she scanned through the dozen texts Roark had sent her the previous night. As low as she felt at the moment, reading the messages gave her mood a minor boost. In his autocratic way, Roark did appear somewhat remorseful that he’d abandoned her to the wolves. But this was his fight to wage, not hers, and just because he was conveniently missing in action didn’t mean she had to be the one to clean up his mess.
An hour later she grew tired of moping and decided to bake the pumpkin pie she’d intended to bring to Thanksgiving dinner at Vance and Charlie’s home. After reading the Page Six article, there was no way she was leaving her apartment, but no reason why she couldn’t celebrate the holiday.
She was rolling out the pie dough when her doorbell rang. Dusting flour from her hands, she headed to the front door. Josie stood in the hall.
“I suppose you thought to make a fool of me by pretending to be engaged to Roark Black,” her boss began without even a hello. “Well, I’m here to tell you that not only am I never going to make you a partner, but you’re fired, as well.”
On the heels of everything else that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, Elizabeth saw Josie’s pinched mouth and accusatory, close-set eyes through a glaze of red. “Fine. Then I guess I’ll be opening my own event planning company. And my first client will be Sonya Fremont. She’s agreed to let me plan her gala.”
The sheer insanity of the boast shocked Elizabeth out of her fury. She had no idea if Sonya would even agree to take her call once she read the Page Six story. For that matter, Elizabeth had no idea if any of the society women who’d hired her would let her continue working on their projects.
Josie’s mouth opened and closed. She looked thunderstruck. “Sonya agreed to hire us?”
“She agreed to hire me,” Elizabeth corrected, emphasizing the last word. Or she prayed that Sonya’s offer still stood. “She refuses to have anything to do with you.”
Having an important client like Sonya Fremont would make it easy enough for Elizabeth to find a job with another event planner.
“I can’t believe you’d turn on me like this,” Josie said. “After everything I did for you.”
“You fired me.” Granted, Elizabeth hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep, but was she hearing things or had her boss fired her thirty seconds earlier. “How have I turned on you?”
“You said terrible things to Sonya about me, didn’t you? That’s why she won’t work with me.”
“I didn’t say anything to Sonya about you.” What the hell had she been thinking to continue working for someone as crazy as Josie?
“What about your events this weekend? Are you planning on abandoning all of those, as well?”
“I guess you should have thought about that before you fired me.”
As she shut the door in her boss’s face, Josie’s last words struck her. “I’m going to make sure that no other event planners will dare touch you,” Josie yelled, her voice carrying loud and clear through the door. “You’re going to rue the day you messed with me.”
Rue the day?
Between her former boss’s poison and the outing of her pretend engagement to Roark, what if Elizabeth couldn’t find another job? Earlier in the week she’d gone to the fertility clinic to have blood work done in the hopes that she could start the process towards another in vitro attempt. The third round had to be the charm. But if she had no job, it wouldn’t matter if Roark’s money helped her get pregnant—she wouldn’t be able to support a child on unemployment.
Covering her mouth with both hands, Elizabeth set her back against the door as her knees
gave way. She slid down the door. When her butt hit the floor she collapsed in a fit of giggles. It wasn’t until she was gasping for breath that she realized she was crying. Yep, it was official, she’d hit rock bottom.
On the one-year anniversary of the worst day of her life, she’d celebrated by becoming a social pariah and slamming the door in her boss’s face instead of begging for her job back. It was perfect.
From her nightstand came the sound of her cell phone. Elizabeth wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands and pushed off the floor. On the television, Garfield the cat floated into Times Square. Elizabeth had surrounded herself with all her favorite Thanksgiving traditions, but no cheer filled the hollow in her chest.
She didn’t get to the phone before it rolled to voice mail. It was Roark.
“Elizabeth, Vance called and told me we hit Page Six. I’m sorry I’m not there to handle this, but I’m catching the first plane home. In the meantime, it would be best if you don’t speak to any reporters or talk to anyone. That might make things worse. I’ll deal with everything when I get back.”
His voice sounded brisk and authoritative, an employer gearing up for damage control. Yet another reminder that they weren’t in this as a couple, but as coconspirators. Still, it would be nice to feel his arms around her. To be able to lean on him.
Elizabeth shook off her unrealistic longing and went back to her pie. By the time it went into the oven, her kitchen was covered in a thin layer of flour and her sink was piled with dishes.
For the second time that morning her doorbell rang. She couldn’t remember ever being this popular. With Roark’s warning ringing in her ear, she checked the peephole before she opened the door in case an ambitious reporter had tracked her down. Vance Waverly stood in her hallway.
She opened the door.
“Hel-l-o.” Both his tone and his eyebrows rose as he took in her appearance.
Too late, Elizabeth realized if the kitchen was covered in flour, she probably was, as well. “What are you doing here?”
“Roark called me after you didn’t pick up. He’s worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
